THERE was a good deal of difficulty made among the relations about this removal. The ladies particularly were very decided on the subject. Who would look after Mary? who would see that she did not do too much, that she took proper nourishment, that she had from time to time a new gown, if she went away? “She will never think of these things for herself,” said Mrs. Prescott at the Hall to Mrs. Prescott at the Rectory. “She will give everything to the children. She will think of him and them, and never of herself.”
“But I don’t see what we can do,” said the clergyman’s wife. “We cannot keep them here against their will. It is a far better income than Hugh can afford to give. And with children coming so fast, they will soon have to think of education and all that. I don’t like it any more than you do,” added the clerical lady, “but what can we do?”
They, however, all felt that Mary’s satisfaction in the change was ungrateful and almost unnatural.
“You will never know the advantages you have had till you go away,” her aunt said to her. “You have always had some one to refer to, some one to take you out a little and make you forget your cares. But among strangers it will be different. You don’t know how different it will be.”
Perhaps Mary was a little ungrateful. She did not estimate at their due value the dinners at the Hall to which she and the curate had often gone quite unwillingly, though the givers of these entertainments thought it was a great thing for the young couple to have somebody who was always ready to ask them. Young couples are apt to be ungrateful in this way, to think little of the home invitations, and to prefer their own company to that of their relatives; and Mary had not been better than others in this respect. She and Mr. Asquith had said to each other that it was a bore when they went to the Hall to dine. They had said to each other that their evenings at home were much more delightful. Though Mary at this period would not have believed it possible, yet there were moments in later years when they would have found it very agreeable to return to those old dinners at the Hall: but of that she was at present quite unaware. She was, indeed, it must be allowed, a little too exultant and happy about her move. To think that this advancement had been offered to the curate, such an important post, so much superior to anything that could have been hoped for at this early stage, elated her beyond measure. And the increased income was a great thing. Giving up at once, and with great ease, the idea of training young servants to such perfection that people should come far and near to compete for a maid who had been with Mrs. Asquith, which was her first ideal, Mary rejoiced in the prospect of getting a real servant, a woman who knew her work, “a thorough good maid-of-all-work,” she said with importance, as if she had been speaking of a groom of the chambers. “Oh, the relief it will be just to tell her what has to be done, without having to show her everything!” Mrs. Asquith said.
“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.”
“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.
