“It is very good of him to write to you while he is in such a state,” said Mrs. Thomas.
“Indeed it is,” said Mary—“very good indeed.” And then she went on with the history of Rasselas in his happy valley, by which study Mrs. Thomas intended to initiate her into that course of novel-reading which has become necessary for a British lady. But Mrs. Thomas had a mind to improve the present occasion. It was her duty to inculcate in her pupil love and gratitude towards the beneficent man who was doing so much for her. Gratitude for favours past and love for favours to come; and now, while that scrap of a letter was lying on the table, the occasion for doing so was opportune.
“Mary, I do hope you love Mr. Graham with all your heart and all your strength.” She would have thought it wicked to say more; but so far she thought she might go, considering the sacred tie which was to exist between her pupil and the gentleman in question.
“Oh, yes, indeed I do;” and then Mary’s eyes fell wishfully on the cover of the book which lay in her lap while her finger kept the place. Rasselas is not very exciting, but it was more so than Mrs. Thomas.
“You would be very wicked if you did not. And I hope you think sometimes of the very responsible duties which a wife owes to her husband. And this will be more especially so with you than with any other woman—almost that I ever heard of.”
There was something in this that was almost depressing to poor Mary’s spirit, but nevertheless she endeavoured to bear up against it and do her duty. “I shall do all I can to please him, Mrs. Thomas;—and indeed I do try about the French. And he says I was right to give papa that money.”
“But there will be many more things than that when you’ve stood at the altar with him and become his wife;—bone of his bone, Mary.” And she spoke these last words in a very solemn tone, shaking her head, and the solemn tone almost ossified poor Mary’s heart as she heard it.
“Yes; I know there will. But I shall endeavour to find out what he likes.”
“I don’t think he is so particular about his eating and drinking as some other gentlemen; though no doubt he will like his things nice.”
“I know he is fond of strong tea, and I shan’t forget that.”
“And about dress. He is not very rich you know, Mary; but it will make him unhappy if you are not always tidy. And his own shirts—I fancy he has no one to look after them now, for I so often see the buttons off. You should never let one of them go into his drawers without feeling them all to see that they’re on tight.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Mary, and then she made another little furtive attempt to open the book.
“And about your own stockings, Mary. Nothing is so useful to a young woman in your position as a habit of darning neat. I’m sometimes almost afraid that you don’t like darning.”
“Oh yes I do.” That was a fib; but what could she do, poor girl, when so pressed?
“Because I thought you would look at Jane Robinson’s and Julia Wright’s which are lying there in the basket. I did Rebecca’s myself before tea, till my old eyes were sore.”
“Oh, I didn’t know,” said Mary, with some slight offence in her tone. “Why didn’t you ask me to do them downright if you wanted?”
“It’s only for the practice it will give you.”
“Practice! I’m always practising something.” But nevertheless she laid down the book, and dragged the basket of work up on to the table. “Why, Mrs. Thomas, it’s impossible to mend these; they’re all darn.”
“Give them to me,” said Mrs. Thomas. And then there was silence between them for a quarter of an hour during which Mary’s thoughts wandered away to the events of her future life. Would his stockings be so troublesome as these?
But Mrs. Thomas was at heart an honest woman, and as a rule was honest also in practice. Her conscience told her that Mr. Graham might probably not approve of this sort of practice for conjugal duties, and in spite of her failing eyes she resolved to do her duty. “Never mind them, Mary,” said she. “I remember now that you were doing your own before dinner.”
“Of course I was,” said Mary sulkily. “And as for practice, I don’t suppose he’ll want me to do more of that than anything else.”
“Well, dear, put them by.” And Miss Snow did put them by, resuming Rasselas as she did so. Who darned the stockings of Rasselas and felt that the buttons were tight on his shirts? What a happy valley must it have been if a bride expectant were free from all such cares as these!
“I suppose, Mary, it will be some time in the spring of next year.” Mrs. Thomas was not reading, and therefore a little conversation from time to time was to her a solace.
“What will be, Mrs. Thomas?”
“Why, the marriage.”
“I suppose it will. He told father it should be early in 18—, and I shall be past twenty then.”
“I wonder where you’ll go to live.”
“I don’t know. He has never said anything about that.”
“I suppose not; but I’m sure
