Cousin Mary

by Mrs. Oliphant

“But you used to think it would be so much better to train one to your own ways,” the curate replied, not being used to so rapid a change of principle.

“Ah, I have learned something myself since then,” said Mary. And so she had—the first lesson in life, which has so many and such hard lessons, especially for those who study in the school of poverty. Poor Mary thought her troubles were over now. She even formed dreams of having a little nursemaid to wheel out the perambulator, Two hundred and fifty eked out by that forty-five of her own! Why, it was a princely income; and privation and discomfort, she fully believed, were now to be things of the past.

There was some difficulty in getting the furniture transported to the new place, for some of it was very heavy and large, having come direct, as has been said, from the lumber rooms and unused part of the Hall. The curate proposed with diffidence that these lordly articles should be sold, and others more suitable bought, to save the expense of carriage; but Mary was shocked by the suggestion. “They are all presents,” she said; “we couldn’t, oh, we couldn’t, Harry, without hurting their feelings. It would look as if we thought those things not good enough for us that were good enough for them.”

“But they were not good enough for them, or they would not have been given to us,” said the curate, a speech which he repented immediately, for Mary would not have such a reproach thrown upon her relations; and her husband ate his words and explained that it was because the great mahogany sideboard, etc., were too good for a curate’s little house that he wished to dispose of them, which mended matters. And even now everybody was very kind. Uncle Hugh insisted on adding twenty pounds to the last quarter’s income for travelling expenses, which, considering that his curate was deserting him, was liberal indeed; and the Squire was not behind in liberality. There was perhaps a little of the feeling on the part of the richer relations that they were thus washing their hands of Mary, setting her up once for all, so that she never could have any excuse for saying that her mother’s brothers had not done their duty by her. Neither of these kind men, who were really fond of her in their way, would have said this even to themselves. But it must be remembered that she had chosen for herself, and contrary to their advice, and that she had been fully warned of the poverty which was likely to be her lot, and that they could not always stand between her and its penalties. But if this was their feeling, they were at least very kind and liberal in this final setting out, which also was her own doing or her husband’s doing, and no way suggested by any desire of theirs to get rid of her. And her aunt and the girls urged upon her the necessity of writing, and keeping them fully informed of all that happened. “Write every week,” said Mrs. Prescott at the Hall; “if you don’t make a habit of it, you will fall out of it altogether. Now, Mary, remember, once a week.”

“Don’t let us hear of the new babies only through the newspapers,” said Mrs. Prescott at the Rectory.

“Oh, Aunt John, of course I shall write every week, or oftener. Oh, Aunt Hugh, how could you suppose such a thing? and perhaps there will be no more babies,” Mary said.

She was a little tearful as she bade them all good-bye, remembering then, with a touch of compunction, how kind they had always been; but all the same she was radiant, setting out upon life for the first time, setting out fairly upon the new world, upon her own career, without any of the old traditions. Heretofore, though she had attained the dignity of marriage and maternity, Mary had not felt the greater splendour of independence. Now she was going out with no head but her husband, and no beaten paths in which she must tread. They were going to trace their own way through the world, their own way and that of their children, the way of a new family, a new house, a new nation and tribe, distinct among the other tribes, not linked on, a subsidiary sept to the tribe of the Prescotts. Perhaps there was a little ingratitude in this, too, as there is in every erection of a new standard; but they did not see it from that point of view. She was radiant in the glory of her separate beginning, glad to throw off the thraldom of natural subjection, just as they were perhaps glad to wash their hands of her and her concerns. Neither expressed the feeling, or would have acknowledged it; but it was a natural feeling enough on both sides.

John was the last of the Prescotts to bid his cousin good-bye. He came in at a very inappropriate moment, when all the things were packed, and the children were having their hats and hoods tied on, and making a great noise in inarticulate baby excitement, delighted with the commotion. He strolled in at this moment probably because it was the worst he could have chosen, and stood looking at the emptied and desolate cottage, and the family all in their travelling dresses, waiting for the carriage which was coming from the Hall to take them to the station. “I’ve come to thay good-bye,” said John, looking all about him, as if with a desire to see whether they were carrying any of the fixtures away.

“Oh, John, how kind of you,” said Mary, “though we are in such a confusion: there is not a chair to ask you to sit down in.”

“I don’t want to thit down,” said John. And he stood for a little longer gazing round him until Mr. Asquith had gone out to look for the carriage, which was late—or at least, so they thought in their anxiety, to be in good time for the train. This appeared to be what John wanted, for he said more quickly than usual, “I don’t want to thit down; I want to thay thomething before you go away.”