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Page 47
"My dear young lady, it is the commonest thing in the world--very
painful but very common; the families of professional men are
frequently left without provision. Such a pity!--because, if they
cannot save, they can insure. We _all_ can do _that_, but they do
_not_ do it, and consequently everywhere the families of professional
men are found in distress; so, as I said, it is common; and I wanted
you to suggest to your mother, that, if she would not feel hurt at it,
the thing being so common--dear Dr. Adams having been so popular, so
very popular--that while every one is talking about him and you all,
a very handsome subscription could be got up. I would begin it with
a sum large enough to invite still larger. I had a great regard for
him--I had indeed."
Mary felt her heart sink and rise, and her throat swell, so that
she could not speak. She had brought herself to the determination of
employing her talents for her own support, but she was not prepared
to come with her family before the world as paupers. "We have no claim
upon the public," she said at last. "I am sure you mean us kindly, but
we have no claim. My dear father forwarded no public work--no public
object; he gave his advice, and received his payment. If we are not
provided for, it is no public fault. Besides, my father's children are
able and willing to support themselves. I am sure you mean us kindly,
but we have no claim upon public sympathy, and an appeal to it would
crush us to the earth. I am very glad you did not speak first to my
mother. My uncle Charles would not suffer it, even suppose she wished
it."
This friend also departed to excite new speculations as to the
pride and poverty of "poor dear Dr. Adams's family." In the world,
however--the busy busy London world--it is idle to expect any thing
to create even a nine days' wonder. When the house and furniture were
at last offered for sale, the feeling was somewhat revived; and Mary,
whose beauty, exquisite as it was, had so unobtrusive a character as
never to have created a foe, was remembered with tears by many: even
the father of her old lover, when he was congratulated by one more
worldly-minded than himself on the escape of his son in not marrying
a portionless girl, reproved the unfeeling speaker with a wish that he
only hoped his son might have as good a wife as Mary Adams would have
been.
CHAPTER V.
The bills were taken down, the house purified from the
auction-mob--every thing changed; a new name occupied the doctor's
place in the "Court Guide"--and in three months the family seemed
as completely forgotten amongst those of whom they once formed a
prominent part, as if they had never existed. When one sphere of life
closes against a family, they find room in another. Many kind-hearted
persons in Mrs. Adams's first circle would have been rejoiced to be
of service to her and hers, but they were exactly the people upon whom
she had no claim. Of a high but poor family, her relatives had little
power. What family so situated ever had any influence beyond what
they absolutely needed for themselves? With an ill grace she at
last acceded to the kind offer made by Mr. Charles Adams, and took
possession of the cottage he fixed upon, until something could be done
for his brother's children. In a fit of proud despair the eldest son
enlisted into a regiment of dragoons; the second was fortunate enough
to obtain a cadetship through a stranger's interference; and his
uncle thought it might be possible to get the youngest forward in
his father's profession. The expense of the necessary arrangements
was severely felt by the prudent and careful country gentleman. The
younger girls were too delicate for even the common occupations of
daily life; and Mary, instead of receiving the welcome she had been
led to expect from her aunt and cousins, felt that every hour she
spent at the Grange was an intrusion.
The sudden death of Dr. Adams had postponed the intended wedding of
Charles Adams's eldest daughter; and although her mother agreed that
it was their duty to forward the orphan children, she certainly felt,
as most affectionate mothers whose hearts are not very much enlarged
would feel, that much of their own savings--much of the produce of
her husband's hard labour--labour during a series of years when
her sister-in-law and her children were enjoying all the luxuries
of life--would now be expended for their support; this to an
all-sacrificing mother, despite _her sense of the duty of kindness_,
was hard to bear. As long as they were not on the spot, she theorised
continually, and derived much satisfaction from the sympathising
observations of her neighbours, and was proud, _very_ proud, of
the praise bestowed upon her husband's benevolence; but when her
sister-in-law's expensive habits were in daily array before her (the
cottage being close to the Grange,) when she knew, to use her own
expression, "that she never put her hand to a single thing;" that she
could not live without port wine, when she herself never drank even
gooseberry, except on Sundays; never ironed a collar, never dusted
the chimney-piece, or ate a shoulder of mutton--roast one day, cold
the next, and hashed the third. While each day brought some fresh
illustration of her thoughtlessness to the eyes of the wife of the
wealthy tiller of the soil, the widow of the physician thought herself
in the daily practice of the most rigid self-denial. "I am sure,"
was her constant observation to her all-patient daughter--"I am sure
I never thought it would come to this. I had not an idea of going
through so much. I wonder your uncle and his wife can permit me to
live in the way I do--they ought to consider how I was brought up."
It was in vain Mary represented that they were existing upon charity;
that they ought to be most grateful for what they received, coming as
it did from those who, in their days of prosperity, professed nothing,
while those who professed all things had done nothing. Mary would so
reason, and then retire to her own chamber to weep alone over things
more hard to bear.
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