COUSIN MARY
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT
AUTHOR OF “CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” ETC.
_THIRD EDITION_
London
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
8 & 9, PATERNOSTER ROW
COUSIN MARY
[Illustration: “BY-AND-BY IT CAME TO PASS THAT THESE TWO MET... IN THE
COTTAGES” (_p. 36_).]
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CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. ONLY MARY 7
II. ONLY THE CURATE 19
III. THE TWO TOGETHER 31
IV. MARY’S LITTLE THOUGHTS 44
V. SELF-BETRAYED 58
VI. PARADISE LANE 73
VII. THE DISCLOSURE 88
VIII. NEVERTHELESS 103
IX. “HAPPY EVER AFTER” 118
X. THE LIGHT OF COMMON DAY 133
XI. THE FIRST CHANGE 148
XII. THE ELDEST CHILD 163
XIII. A CONFERENCE 178
XIV. GOING AWAY 193
XV. FIRESIDE TALK 211
XVI. ALARMS 226
XVII. SHUTTING UP 244
XVIII. “LET ME GO HOME” 260
XIX. IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT 273
XX. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 289
XXI. AN INNOCENT SUFFERER 304
XXII. MARY’S INVESTIGATIONS 321
XXIII. THE SICK ROOM 337
XXIV. THE INVALID GENTLEMAN 353
XXV. THE RESTORATION 369
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COUSIN MARY.
CHAPTER I.
ONLY MARY.
The Prescotts of Horton had been a powerful family in their day. Their
house still was more in accordance with their past greatness than with
the mediocrity of their fortune at the period of their history which has
first to be indicated to the reader. They were no longer in the first
rank in their county, but had settled down by degrees without any great
fall, into the position of ordinary squires: that is to say, their fall
had happened a hundred and fifty years before, in the time of that
unhappy attempt to subvert the government established by the Revolution,
which is known as the “Fifteen.” The Prescott of that period had joined
the rebellion, if rebellion it could be called, and had escaped with his
life at its disastrous conclusion. His son had secured a portion of the
family belongings, but never had been able to regain the wealth or the
position of his forefathers; and since then the family had remained
humble but proud, thinking a great deal of themselves, but not thought
quite so much of by their neighbours--a family not clever, nor any way
distinguished, yet furnishing its quota of stout soldiers and
respectable clergymen, with now and then a lawyer or two, to the service
of the state.
The elder brother, the Squire, had been generally a dullish, goodish
sort of man, doing his duty fairly well, fairly kind to his younger
brothers and sisters, keeping up the ancestral house as well as he could
on means not great enough for any splendour, and giving more or less a
home to the scattered members of his family. The great advantage of
those much abused laws of primogeniture, entail, or whatever else they
may be which fix the succession in one member of a family, is this--that
they are far more apt to keep up a central point, a family home, than
any other arrangement yet discovered. When all share alike, no one has
any particular claim upon the others, and ancestral homes, like all
other primitive regulations for preserving the sacred nucleus of the
family, cease to be.
The younger Prescott brothers went off to seek their fortunes in every
generation; the elder always kept up the house. It depended upon his
character, and perhaps still more on that of his wife, whether this home
was or was not a kindly one, but still it was always there; a possible
shelter in all circumstances, a perpetual court of appeal against the
injustices of the world.
I have not space enough here to describe the old house, which was much
too great for the income and pretensions of the present occupant. It
was a great house, partly Elizabethan, with additions in later days,
with two great wings, in one of which was a fine portrait gallery, while
the other contained the show apartments of the house, a suite of rooms
which were quite worthy to have been occupied by a king, though fact
compels us to add that royalty had made but a very slight use of them.
King Charles, in one of his hasty rides in the midst of his troubled
career, had paused to eat a morsel in the hall, and to wash his royal
hands in a dressing-room. This was all, but it was something, and the
rooms were beautiful with their faded furniture and heavy old hangings
and tapestries, and chairs covered with embroidered work. All this was
very much faded, and kept with difficulty from falling to pieces; but it
was very imposing, and strangers came from all quarters to see the
house. The pictures in the gallery were all portraits now, though it was
a tradition that there had once been several old Masters which were sold
in the troubles, but of which the frames still remained, blankly filled
up by pieces of old brocade, in themselves a sight to see. Some even of
the portraits, especially those which had been painted by famous
masters, had disappeared too, so that the importance of the gallery in
point of art was small.
These remains of glory past were separate from the living part of the
house. They were kept in order, and shown to strangers, a point of
family pride which every Prescott held to be essential. But the existing
Prescotts lived in the centre part of the house, which was too large for
them, with its great hall and the other beautiful rooms, so airy and
spacious, which were the creation of a generation which did not fear
expense and loved space. The fine wainscoted room which was used as the
dining-room in modern days, accommodated thirty people easily at dinner,
whereas the Prescotts numbered but six, and seldom had company. The
drawing-room was still larger, with noble broad bay windows, each as big
as a modern room. To furnish all this, it may be supposed, was no
trifle; and the furniture was shabby; what was old, faded; what was new,
not half good enough for the natural splendour of the place.
Nevertheless, new and old together harmonised somehow by mere use and
wont, and the general appearance was that of a mingled humility and
pride, like the character of the family, which thought such great things
of itself and yet was able to do only little things and occupy a small
position in the world.
This family consisted of six persons, as has been said--the Squire and
his wife; the eldest son, who was very far from clever, who was, indeed,
sometimes considered to be “not all there,” a mild, long young man, with
an elongated, melancholy visage, not unlike that of the tragic monarch
whose passing visit had given a historical association to the house. His
name was not a romantic one; it was plain John, according to the habit
of the house. He was very mild in all his tastes; good so far as a
person, so neutral-tinted could be called good; kind, disturbing
nobody, ready to do almost anything that was asked of him, so long as it
was asked with due regard to his dignity--but as thoroughly aware of his
importance as a Prescott, and the eldest son, as if he had possessed all
the brains of the house. Then there were two sisters, no longer very
young, but who had not yet renounced the _rôle_ of youth, and who were
always called “the girls,” according to general family usage.
Last of all was Percival, the soldier, the youngest, the prodigal, the
spendthrift, the clever one, the beloved of the house. All these names
do not mean that there was anything bad about Percy--quite the reverse.
His gaiety made the house bright, his laugh rang through all the great
rooms and woke cheerful echoes. Money trickled through his fingers he
could not tell how, but he did no particular harm with it. The worst was
that he was generally away from home with his regiment, and when he came
home, though it was a delight to look forward to, and did everybody
good, Mr. Prescott was always awfully conscious that for this happiness
there would certainly be a good deal to pay. “That is all very well, my
dear,” he would say to his wife, “so long as I live: but when John is
master poor Percy will find out the difference.” “Ah, John!” Mrs.
Prescott would answer, with a sigh, wondering in her heart who John’s
wife would be, thinking what a good thing it would be if he were not to
marry, feeling sure that whoever married him would be the future ruler
of Horton. That was the danger that lay in her gallant Percy’s way.
This accounts for five people, and I have said there were six. The last
was only Mary. The other members of the family would have thought it
quite unnecessary to give any further description of her. She was the
one who did all manner of little errands in the house, and little
offices. She arranged the flowers; if Anna wanted something upstairs it
was Mary who ran to fetch it; if Sophie left anything in the garden, or
on one of the tables in the hall, Mary always knew where to find it.
She fetched Mr. Prescott the newspaper he had left about, and found her
aunt’s spectacles, and got John his hat, which he always forgot when he
was going out. When Percy was at home she did all sorts of commissions
for him; even the old housekeeper gave her messages and things to carry.
“Just put this in the drawing-room, Miss Mary, my dear,” or, “Will you
take these books to Miss Anna?” was what Mrs. Beesly said half-a-dozen
times a day. They meant no harm whatever, and did not oppress her, or
ill-use her, or neglect her, or do any of the things which are supposed
to be done to a little dependent orphan in her uncle’s house. Perhaps
they may have been said to have neglected her, but not of any evil
intent.
They meant no harm; she was only Mary: there was no particular reason
that anybody knew of for thinking of her, or putting anybody out of
their way on her account. She was a child in the opinion of all the
others, even of “the girls.” She was not included in that term. She was
not even advanced to the rank of one of the girls. She was only Mary.
She had never been whipped, or scolded, or put in dark closets, or set
to hard tasks all her life. It is true that Anna’s and Sophie’s old
dresses were very often “made down” for her: but that would have
happened all the same had she been Anna’s and Sophie’s sister. Her life
was happy enough; she had a share of everything that was going; and it
never had occurred to her that she should be made of any particular
account.
In her own mind, as well as in the conviction of the whole household,
she was only Mary. She was a quiet little thing, but always cheerful,
ready to talk when any one wanted to talk, or to play her little pieces
when asked for them, or to be silent like a little mouse when there was
no need for such vanities. She took herself as easily as the others took
her, making no sort of pretension. Nor did she feel wronged, or
offended, or slighted, as some might have done. She was only Mary, not
Miss Prescott of Horton, as both the girls were. She was not even a
Prescott, only a sister’s daughter, an unconsidered trifle in the
feminine line. Her whole life was pitched in this minor key, but it was
not at all an unhappy little life at her age, for she was barely twenty.
It had not yet begun to matter very much that she was a first object to
nobody. As a matter of fact, everything was perfectly natural about her,
and she had never found that things might be brighter, or that she
really had any aspiration after a more individual life.
She had an uncle at the Rectory as well as at the Hall, but there were
no young people in the clerical house. This was how things stood with
the Prescotts and Mary Burnet, when the new curate arrived, of whom
Uncle Hugh at the Rectory had heard so very good an account. Uncle Hugh
was a very conscientious clergyman. He liked to keep the parish in
thoroughly good working order, but if truth must be told he preferred
that some one else should do the work for him. He had the very best
recommendations with the new curate. He was hard-working, he was
moderate, not too much of a ritualist, and yet a very good Churchman,
and a man who socially took nothing upon him; a retiring, modest young
man. The Rector was most fortunate in getting a curate like Mr. Asquith,
everybody said.
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