 | COUSIN WILLIAM. The Mayflower, or, Sketches of scenes and
characters among the descendants of the Pilgrims |  |
COUSIN WILLIAM.
In a stately red house, in one of the villages
of New-England, lived the heroine of our story.
She had every advantage of rank and wealth, for
her father was a deacon of the church, and
owned sheep, and oxen, and exceeding much
substance. There was an appearance of respectability
and opulence about all the demesnes.
The house stood almost concealed amid a forest
of apple-trees, in spring blushing with blossoms,
and in autumn golden with fruit; and near by
might be seen the garden, surrounded by a red
picket-fence, enclosing all sorts of magnificence.
There, in autumn, might be seen abundant
squash-vines, which seemed puzzled for
room where to bestow themselves, and bright
golden squashes, and full-orbed yellow pumpkins,
looking as satisfied as the evening sun
when he has just had his face washed in a
shower, and is sinking soberly to bed. There
were superannuated seed-cucumbers, enjoying
the pleasures of a contemplative old age; and
a specimen tassel hanging at the end of each
ear. The beams of the summer sun darted
through rows of crimson currants, abounding
on bushes by the fence, while a sulky black currant
bush sat scowling in one corner, a sort of
garden curiosity.
But time would fail us were we to enumerate
all the wealth of Deacon Enos Taylor. He
himself belonged to that necessary class of
beings who, though remarkable for nothing
at all, are very useful in filling up the links of
society. Far otherwise was his sister-in-law,
Mrs. Abigail Evetts, who, on the demise of the
deacon's wife, had assumed the reins of government
in the household.
This lady was of the same opinion that has
animated many illustrious philosophers, namely,
that the affairs of this world need a great
deal of seeing to in order to have them go on
prosperously; and, although she did not, like
them, engage in the supervision of the universe,
she made amends by unremitting diligence in
the department under her care. In her mind
there was an evident necessity that every one
should be up and doing: Monday, because it
was washing-day; Tuesday, because it was ironing-day;
Wednesday, because it was baking-day;
and so on to the end of the week. Then she
had the care of reminding all in the house of
everything each was to do from week's end to
week's end; and she was so faithful in this respect,
that scarcely an original act of volition
took place in the family. The poor deacon was
reminded when he went out and when he came
in, when he sat down and when he rose up, so
that an act of omission could only have been
committed through sheer malice prepense.
But the supervision of a whole family of children
afforded, to a lady of her active turn of
mind, more abundant matter of exertion. To
see that their faces were washed, their clothes
mended, and their catechism learned; to see that
they did not pick the flowers, nor throw stones
at the chickens, nor sophisticate the great house-dog,
was an accumulation of care that devolved
almost entirely on Mrs. Abigail, so that, by her
own account, she lived and throve by a perpetual
miracle.
The eldest of her charge, at the time this story
begins, was a girl just arrived at young-ladyhood,
and her name was Mary. Now we know
that people very seldom have stories written
about them, who have not sylph-like forms, and
glorious eyes, or, at least, “acertain inexpressible
But stories have of late so much abounded, that
they actually seem to have used up all the eyes,
hair, teeth, lips, and forms necessary for a heroine,
so that no one can now pretend to find
an original collection wherewith to set one
forth. These things considered, I regard it as
fortunate that my heroine was not a beauty.
She looked neither like a sylph, nor an oread,
nor a fairy; she had neither “l'air distingué”
nor “l'air magnifique,” but bore a great resemblance
to a real mortal girl, such as you might
pass a dozen of without any particular comment;
one of those appearances which, though
common as water, may, like that, be coloured
any way by the associations you connect with
it. Accordingly, a faultless taste in dress, a
perfect ease and gayety of manner, a constant
flow of kindly feeling, seemed, in her case, to
produce all the effect of beauty. Her manners
had just dignity enough to repel impertinence,
without destroying the careless freedom and
sprightliness in which she commonly indulged.
No person had a merrier run of stories, songs,
and village traditions, and all those odds and
ends of character which form the materials for
animated conversation. She had read, too,
everything she could find: Rollin's History,
glass bookcase in the best room, and an odd
volume of Shakspeare, and now and then one
of Scott's novels, borrowed from a somewhat
literary family in the neighbourhood. She also
kept an album to write her thoughts in, and
was in a constant habit of cutting out all the
pretty poetry from the corners of the newspapers,
besides drying a number of forget-me-nots
and rosebuds, in memory of different particular
friends, with a number of other little
sentimental practices to which young ladies
of sixteen and thereabout are addicted. She
was also endowed with great constructiveness;
so that, in this day of ladies' fairs, there was
nothing, from bellows needle-books down to
web-footed pincushions, to which she could
not turn her hand. Her sewing certainly was
extraordinary (we think too little is made of
this in the accomplishments of heroines), her
stitching was like rows of pearls, and her cross-stitching
was fairy-like; and for sewing over-and-over,
as the village school ma'am hath it,
she had not her equal. And what shall we say
of her pies and puddings! They would have
converted the most reprobate old bachelor in
the world. And then her sweeping and dusting!
“Many daughters have done virtuously,
but thou excellest them all!”
And now, what do you suppose is coming
next? Why, a young gentleman, of course;
for about this time comes to settle in the village,
and take charge of the academy, a certain
William Barton. Now, if you wish to know
more particularly who he was, we only wish
we could refer you to Mrs. Abigail, who was
most accomplished in genealogies and old
wives' fables, and she would have told you that
“her gran'ther, Ike Evetts, married a wife who
was second cousin to Peter Scranton, who was
great uncle to Polly Mosely, whose daughter
Mary married William Barton's father, just
about the time old Squire Peter's house was
burned down.” And then would follow an account
of the domestic history of all branches
of the family since they came over from England.
Be that as it may, it is certain that Mrs.
Abigail denominated him cousin, and that he
came to the deacon's to board; and he had not
been there more than a week, and made sundry
observations on Miss Mary, before he determined
to call her cousin too, which he accomplished
in the most natural way in the world.
Mary was at first somewhat afraid of him, because
she had heard that he had studied through
all that was to be studied in Greek, and Latin,
and German too; and she saw a library of books
looked at them, to think how much there was
to be learned of which she was ignorant. But
all this wore away, and presently they were the
best friends in the world. He gave her books
to read, and he gave her lessons in French, nothing
puzzled by that troublesome verb which
must be first conjugated, whether in French,
Latin, or English. Then he gave her a deal of
good advice about the cultivation of her mind
and the formation of her character, all of which
was very improving, and tended greatly to consolidate
their friendship. But, unfortunately
for Mary, William made quite as favourable an
impression on the female community generally
as he did on her, having distinguished himself
on certain public occasions, such as delivering
lectures on botany, and also, at the earnest request
of the Fourth of July Committee, pronounced
an oration which covered him with
glory. He had been known, also, to write poetry,
and had a retired and romantic air greatly
bewitching to those who read Bulwer's novels.
In short, it was morally certain, according to
all rules of evidence, that if he had chosen to
pay any lady of the village a dozen visits a week,
she would have considered it as her duty to entertain
him.
William did visit; for, like many studious
people, he found a need for the excitement of
society; but, whether it was party or singing-school,
he walked home with Mary, of course,
in as steady and domestic a manner as any man
who has been married a twelvemonth. His air
in conversing with her was inevitably more
confidential than with any other one, and this
was cause for envy in many a gentle breast,
and an interesting diversity of reports with regard
to her manner of treating the young gentleman
went forth into the village.
“I wonder Mary Taylor will laugh and joke
so much with William Barton in company,” said
one. “Her manners are altogether too free,”
said another. “It is evident she has designs
upon him,” remarked a third; “and she cannot
even conceal it,” pursued a fourth.
Some sayings of this kind at length reached
the ears of Mrs. Abigail, who had the best heart
in the world, and was so indignant that it might
have done your heart good to see her. Still,
she thought it showed that “the girl needed
advising,” and “she should talk to Mary about
the matter.”
But she first concluded to advise with William
on the subject, and therefore, after dinner,
the same day, while he was looking over a treatise
commenced upon him:
“Our Mary is growing up a fine girl.”
William was intent on solving a problem, and
only understanding that something had been
said, mechanically answered “Yes.”
“A little wild or so,” said Mrs. Abigail.
“I know it,” said William, fixing his eyes
earnestly on E, F, B, C.
“Perhaps you think her a little too talkative
and free with you sometimes; you know girls
do not always think what they do.”
“Certainly,” said William, going on with his
problem.
“I think you had better speak to her about
it,” said Mrs. Abigail.
“I think so too,” said William, musing over
his completed work, till at length he arose,
put it in his pocket, and went to school.
Oh, this unlucky concentrativeness! How
many shocking things a man may endorse by
the simple habit of saying “Yes” and “No,”
when he is not hearing what is said to him.
The next morning, when William was gone
to the academy, and Mary was washing the
breakfast things, Aunt Abigail introduced the
subject with great tact and delicacy by remarking,
“Mary, I guess you had better be rather less
free with William than you have been.”
“Free!” said Mary, starting and nearly dropping
the cup from her hand; “why, aunt, what
do you mean?”
“Why, Mary, you must not always be, around,
so free in talking with him, at home, and in
company, and everywhere. It won't do.” The
colour started into Mary's cheek, and mounted
even to her forehead, as she answered with a
dignified air,
“I have not been too free—I know what is
right and proper—I have not been doing anything
that was improper.”
Now, when one is going to give advice, it
is very troublesome to have its necessity thus
called in question, and Mrs. Abigail, who was
fond of her own opinion, felt called upon to defend
it.
“Why, yes you have, Mary; everybody in
the village notices it.”
“I don't care what everybody in the village
says—I shall always do what I think proper,”
retorted the young lady; “I know cousin William
does not think so.”
“Well, I think he does—from some things I
have heard him say.”
“Oh, aunt! what have you heard him say?”
with which she turned to her aunt.
“Mercy on us! you need not knock the house
down, Mary; I don't remember exactly about
it, only that his way of speaking made me think
so.”
“Oh, aunt, do tell me what it was, and all
about it,” said Mary, following her aunt, who
went around dusting the furniture.
Mrs. Abigail, like most obstinate people, who
feel that they have gone too far, and yet are
ashamed to go back, took refuge in an obstinate
generalization, and only asserted that she had
heard him say things, as if he did not quite like
her ways.
This is the most consoling of all methods in
which to leave a matter of this kind for a person
of active imagination. Of course, in five
minutes, Mary had settled in her mind a string
of remarks that would have been suited to any
of her village companions, as coming from her
cousin. All the improbability of the thing vanished
in the absorbing consideration of its possibility;
and, after a moment's reflection, she
pressed her lips together in a very firm way,
and remarked that “Mr. Barton would have no
occasion to say such things again.”
It was very evident, from her heightened colour
very heroical. As for poor Aunt Abigail, she
felt sorry she had vexed her, and addressed
herself most earnestly to her consolation, remarking,
“Mary, I don't suppose William
meant anything. He knows you don't mean
anything wrong.”
“Don't mean anything wrong!” said Mary,
indignantly.
“Why, child, he thinks you don't know
much about folks and things, and if you have
been a little—”
“But I have not been. It was he that talked
with me first; it was he that did everything
first; he called me cousin—and he is my
cousin.”
“No, child, you are mistaken; for you remember
his grandfather was—”
“I don't care who his grandfather was; he
has no right to think of me as he does.”
“Now, Mary, don't go to quarrelling with
him; he can't help his thoughts, you know.”
“I don't care what he thinks,” said Mary,
flinging out of the room with tears in her
eyes.
Now when a young lady is in such a state
of affliction, the first thing to be done is to sit
down and cry for two hours or more, which
in the mean while making many reflections
on the instability of human friendships,
and resolving never to trust any one again as
long as she lived, and thinking that this was a
cold and hollow-hearted world, together with
many other things she had read in books, but
never realized so forcibly as at present. But
what was to be done? Of course, she did not
wish to speak a word to William again, and
wished he did not board there; and, finally, she
put on her bonnet, and determined to go over
to her other aunt's in the neighbourhood, and
spend the day, so that she might not see him
at dinner.
But it so happened that Mr. William, on coming
home to dinner, found himself unaccountably
lonesome during school recess for dinner,
and hearing where Mary was, determined to
call after school at night at her aunt's, and at
tend her home.
Accordingly, in the afternoon, as Mary was
sitting in the parlour with two or three cousins,
Mr. William entered.
Mary was so anxious to look just as if nothing
was the matter, that she turned away her
head and began to look out of the window just
as the young gentleman came up to speak to
health, she drew up very coolly and said,
“Did you speak to me, sir?”
William looked a little surprised at first, but
seating himself by her, “To be sure,” said he;
“and I came to know why you ran away without
leaving any message for me?”
“It did not occur to me,” said Mary, in the
dry tone which, in a lady, means “I will excuse
you from any farther conversation, if you
please.” William felt as if there was something
different from common in all this, but thought
that perhaps he was mistaken, and so continued:
“What a pity, now, that you should be so
careless of me, when I was so thoughtful of you!
I have come all this distance to see how you
do.”
“I am sorry to have given you the trouble,”
said Mary.
“Cousin, are you unwell to-day?” said William.
“No, sir,” said Mary, going on with her sewing.
There was something so marked and decisive
in all this, that William could scarcely believe
his ears. He turned away, and commenced a
conversation with a young lady; and Mary, to
relating a story to her cousins, and presently
they were all in a loud laugh.
“Mary has been full of her knick-knacks to-day,”
said her old uncle, joining them.
William looked at her: she never seemed
brighter or in better spirits, and he began to
think that even Cousin Mary might puzzle a man
sometimes.
He turned away, and began a conversation
with old Mr. Zacary Coan on the raising of
buckwheat, a subject which evidently required
profound thought, for he never looked more
grave, not to say melancholy.
Mary glanced that way, and was struck with
the sad and almost severe expression with
which he was listening to the details of Mr.
Zacary, and was convinced that he was no
more thinking of buckwheat than she was.
“I never thought of hurting his feelings so
much,” said she, relenting; “after all, he has
been very kind to me. But he might have told
me about it, and not somebody else.” And
hereupon she cast another glance towards him.
William was not talking, but sat with his
eyes fixed on the snuffer-tray, with an intense
gravity of gaze that quite troubled her, and she
could not help again blaming herself.
“To be sure! Aunt was right; he could
not help his thoughts. I will try to forget it,”
thought she.
Now you must not think Mary was sitting
still and gazing during this soliloquy. No, she
was talking and laughing, apparently the most
unconcerned spectator in the room. So passed
the evening till the little company broke up.
“I am ready to attend you home,” said William,
in a tone of cold and almost haughty deference.
“I am obliged to you,” said the young lady,
in a similar tone, “but I shall stay all night;
then, suddenly changing her tone, she said,
“No, I cannot keep it up any longer. I will
go home with you, Cousin William.”
“Keep up what?” said William, with surprise.
Mary was gone for her bonnet. She came
out, took his arm, and walked on a little way.
“You have advised me always to be frank,
cousin,” said Mary, “and I must and will be;
so I shall tell you all, though I dare say it is
not according to rule.”
“All what?” said William.
“Cousin,” said she, not at all regarding what
he said, “I was very much vexed this after
noon.”
“So I perceived, Mary.”
“Well, it is vexatious,” she continued,
“though, after all, we cannot expect people to
think us perfect; but I did not think it quite
fair in you not to tell me.”
“Tell you what, Mary?”
Here they came to a place where the road
turned through a small patch of woods. It was
green and shady, and enlivened by a lively
chatterbox of a brook. There was a mossy
trunk of a tree that had fallen beside it, and
made a pretty seat. The moonlight lay in little
patches upon it, as it streamed down through
the branches of the trees. It was a fairy-looking
place, and Mary stopped and sat down, as
if to collect her thoughts. After picking up a
stick, and playing a moment in the water, she
began:
“After all, cousin, it was very natural in you
to say so, if you thought so; though I should
not have supposed you would think so.”
“Well, I should be glad if I could know
what it is,” said William, in a tone of patient
resignation.
“Oh, I forgot that I had not told you,” said
she, pushing back her hat, and speaking like
one determined to go through with the thing.
“Why, cousin, I have been told that you spoke
freer—more—obtrusive than they should be
And now,” said she, her eyes flashing, “you
see it was not a very easy thing to tell you,
but I began with being frank, and I will be so,
for the sake of satisfying myself.”
To this William simply replied, “Who told
you this, Mary?”
“My aunt.”
“Did she say I said it to her?”
“Yes; and I do not so much object to your
saying it as to your thinking it, for you know I
did not force myself on your notice; it was you
who sought my acquaintance and won my confidence;
and that you, above all others, should
think of me in this way!”
“I never did think so, Mary,” said William,
quietly.
“Nor ever said so?”
“Never. I should think you might have
known it, Mary.”
“But—” said Mary.
“But,” said William, firmly, “Aunt Abigail
is certainly mistaken.”
“Well, I am glad of it,” said Mary, looking
relieved, and gazing in the brook. Then looking
up with warmth, “and, cousin, you never
must think so. I am ardent, and I express myself
never should mean, anything more than a sister
might say.”
“And are you sure you never could, if all my
happiness depended on it, Mary?”
She turned and looked up in his face, and
saw a look that brought conviction. She rose
to go on, and her hand was taken and drawn
into the arm of her cousin, and that was the
end of the first and the last difficulty that ever
arose between them.
| COUSIN WILLIAM. The Mayflower, or, Sketches of scenes and
characters among the descendants of the Pilgrims | |