“What is it, Cousin John? Oh, I am in such a confusion——”
“Yes, you are in a great confuthion,” said John solemnly; and then he added after another pause, “if you should ever want anything down there,” pointing with his thumb vaguely over his shoulder, “write to me.”
“Oh, thank you, Cousin John; but we sha’n’t want anything, I hope. Oh, there’s the carriage,” Mary cried; “I hear it at last.”
John stood by gravely shaking his head, his mouth a little open, his moustache drooping. “Thingth are always wanted,” he said solemnly. “Write to me.”
Mary recounted this little incident to her husband after they had established themselves comfortably in the railway carriage, and had waved their hands for the last time to the people assembled to bid them good-bye, and were dashing along over the country, a family detached and set afloat in the world, a new race setting forth to conquer the earth. A sort of atmosphere of excitement, of elation, of novelty, and enthusiasm was about them, so that they were a little sorry for the homelier people going about quietly, looking out of the windows of calm country houses, standing at cottage doors, all in their ordinary way. To be so far out of their ordinary way, in such a rush and whirl of unaccustomed sensation, seemed to them a superiority—an elevation such as the dwellers in every-day life might well be envious of. Mary told her husband about John, and they both laughed, in their superiority of happiness, at the awkward good fellow who had thought it right to make this overture, which it was so little likely they would ever take advantage of. Mary herself laughed, she could not help it: but she said “Don’t laugh at him, Harry; it was a kind thought, a little out of place, perhaps, but we must not judge him by ordinary rules. He may be silly, but he is so kind. Don’t! It hurts me when you laugh at John;” but she laughed herself just a little, softly, under her breath.
“I am not laughing at him,” said the curate; “he is by far the best of the lot, and worth a dozen of that Percy you all make such a fuss about; but I don’t think you’ll write to him to ask his help—at least, I hope not.”
“Harry!” she said with indignation, as if the mere idea of wanting help at all, she his wife, and he the senior curate of St. John’s, Radcliffe, was a suggestion so ridiculous as almost to be an offence. And in this spirit they pursued their happy journey across England to the other side of the kingdom, with, not their flocks and herds, like the patriarchs, but what comes to the same thing, their furniture and their boxes and their children, to settle down in the well-watered plain, in the land flowing with milk and honey, in which their career and their surroundings were to be all their own.
I cannot follow all the details of their history step by step. St. John’s, Radcliffe, did not turn out to be paradise, nor did Mary find boundless capabilities in two hundred and fifty pounds a year. After the first twelvemonth, the cares of life began again to make themselves felt, and fatigue and occasional low spirits chequered their career which nevertheless they still felt to be a fine career. They stayed six years altogether in this place, and left it for what was supposed to be a much better position, with an increased number of children and considerable cheerfulness, though not perhaps with the same elation which had characterised their first setting out. The second post the curate obtained was that of locum tenens to an invalid rector, and hopes were expressed, that in case of good service, if the rector should die, the patron’s choice would most probably fall upon the temporary incumbent. The prospect was delightful, though sufficiently tempered by doubt to make Mr. Asquith hesitate about relinquishing St. John’s. But then it is an understood thing that curates should not consider themselves permanent incumbents; and there were evidences that the rector would like a change, though he would not send so deserving a man with so large a family away. The way the family went on increasing was wonderful, was almost criminal, some people said. Only poor people, and poor clergymen above all, permitted themselves such expansion; and what was to become of all those helpless little things, spectators asked who never attempted to solve their own question. Nevertheless, they got on somehow as large families do. Mary had always a smile and thanksgiving for every new-comer, considering it as a gift of God, and thinking it hard that the poor little intruder should not have a welcome. And that, I confess, is my idea too, though it is a little out of fashion. But life was not much of a holiday under such circumstances, as will be easily understood; and Mary learnt a great many lessons, and went on learning, and had to contradict herself and change her mind over and over again as the years went on. She had begun bravely to write every week, as her aunt charged her; but gradually that good habit had fallen into disuse; and as the Asquiths moved from one place to another, they lost sight of their relations, hearing from them only once in a way, when anything remarkable happened, and at last coming to the pitch that they never heard at all. In sixteen years, which is the time at which I take up my curate and his Mary in their daily life again, a great many things had happened. “The girls” at Horton had both married, one a Frenchman, who took her to live abroad; another an officer in India. The old people at the Hall were both dead. Uncle Hugh was an invalid, living mostly in Italy for his health. And all that belonged to Mary’s youthful life had fallen out of sight. This was the state of affairs in the curate’s house, when Hetty, the eldest girl, the best child that ever was born, reached her sixteenth birthday: a day which was celebrated by a proposal at once exciting, fortunate, and painful, as shall be now set forth.