“Well, I could shield her from some troubles,” Jack murmured. “I could live for her, and love her,—love her as nobody else can do.”
“I am not so sure about that either,” I said gently. “There will be many to love so winning a creature. But don’t be too certain that all must go against you in the future. Maimie is very young yet.”
“She said—plain enough—”
“Yes, I know that. Maimie is perfectly simple and free in heart. She likes you as a brother, and no more. My dear Jack, think of her age and yours.”
“She isn’t a child.”
“You are both children,” I said. “But if you think not,—then be a man, and have patience.”
“But Cress—”
“Cress does not care for Maimie as you do. It is a mere fancy on his part. And Maimie will never care for Cress. She does not admire his character.”
“She doesn’t admire my stupidity, mother.”
“Then don’t be stupid!”
Jack stared at me. “I can’t make myself clever.”
“You can make the most of what brains you have,” I said. “I hoped Maimie herself had taught you that lesson. People with only one talent are a great deal too fond of hiding it away underground, merely because it isn’t five or ten talents.”
Jack was silent.
“But—” he said presently, and stopped.
“You may be quite sure of one thing,” I said seriously. “If you are ever to have any hope of winning Maimie to be your wife, it will not be by proving yourself so poor and weak a creature, that you can’t even study for a couple of hours a day, unless you have a girl to sit by your side and keep you up to the mark.”
Jack turned crimson, and sprang to his feet. Then he sat down on a chair near. “Mother! that’s rather hard.”
“Is it?” I asked. “I don’t want to be hard on any one, least of all on my Jack. But I do want you not to make this one aim the whole of life and work and duty for yourself.”
“It doesn’t seem as if anything else were worth doing, if I can’t have Maimie,” Jack said, in a dejected tone.
“Yes, so you feel at this moment. It is natural, but it is not right. God may or may not grant you that wish of your heart. Either way, life has higher aims and higher duties.”
“I don’t see them.”
And I said, “'Whether we live, we live unto the Lord.’ Would you live only to Maimie, Jack? 'Whether we die, we die unto the Lord,’—if we live unto Him. Will you live and die only with a poor earthly love as your highest good?”
Then another pause.
“Mother, I can’t feel with those who count an earthly love folly and sin,” Jack said vehemently.
“No need,” I said. “The power to love is given us by God. There is no sin in using that power to any extent, if only the heavenly love has its right place. But if Maimie is to be your idol—”
Jack rose, and paced about the room for two minutes. Then he stopped, facing me. “Yes. If Maimie is my idol—”
“Then, Jack, either your idol will separate you from your God, or God will mercifully separate you from your idol.”
“Mercifully, mother!”
“Yes, mercifully,” I answered, “if it is a question of life and death for ever. I pray that it may not be so.”
I said no more for awhile, nor did Jack, But presently he came back to my side, after gazing out of the window into the dusty street.
“Thank you, mother,” he said huskily. “I think I wanted a few plain words. I’ll look into that matter. I’m afraid—afraid Maimie is my idol.”
“Don’t look into it without prayer,” I said softly.
He shook his head. “But still—still, mother, I must try to win her.”
“Try your best,” I answered. “Only remember that for the present Maimie is far too young for anything of the kind. You must work for the future.”
“If I knew how,” he said despondingly.
“Don’t sink into a useless disappointed creature, without aim in life or spirit to work—a thing not fit to be called a man. Work doubly hard, Jack—for duty, if pleasure is impossible. Make the most of your time, the most of your bodily strength, and the most of whatever brain powers you may have. Let Maimie know you as a man with some stuff in you. She will never love a mere bending reed, you may be sure.”
“I’ll not be that, any way,” Jack said with energy. “Mother, you’ll see! I shall begin reading again to-morrow, just as usual, and I’ll work hard.”
He kept his word. I saw Maimie looking at him, with a touch of surprise. She took no further notice for three days.
But on the fourth evening, when he was diligently occupied, with a puzzled look, I saw her go quietly up and say, “What is it, Jack? Can I help you?”
Thereafter, though she did not always sit by his side, Jack found his studies by no means dull. He knew at least that she was still interested in his advance.
THINGS went on quietly for some weeks; Maimie still one of us; Churton sleeping near at hand, in and out often, but apparently in no hurry to come to any sort of decision. Weeks passed thus, and I began to think the winter would see no change. Churton showed some signs of softening, and fitting in rather better with our ways. He was proud of Maimie. I do not know whether he was what I should call fond of her. It often seemed to me as if he were capable of real fondness for nobody except himself.
Sometimes I thought it a little strange how Maimie’s old feelings towards him had changed. Kind as he might be,—and he really did show marked kindness to her,—she clung to us, and distrusted Churton. I suppose the childish dependence on him had been once so thorough, and had received so complete a shake by his long neglect, that there was no bringing it back. “He doesn’t really care for me,” she said frequently to Cherry. “But I’m afraid he does mean to take me away from Aunt Marion.”
In the midst of all this, Ted suddenly sickened with the measles.
I did not think much of it at first, little dreaming what a long winter of nursing lay before me.
Churton at once stopped coming. He said he had never had measles, and measles at his age might be serious; also Aunt Briscoe dreaded infection, and if he came in and out of our house he might not go to hers. This was the first inkling we had of how he frequented “The Gables.” Aunt Briscoe had grown reserved in her letters of late, and rarely mentioned his name.
My husband asked Churton whether he would not think it best to take Maimie at once for a few weeks away from the infection, since she had never had the complaint. But he said, “No; it was too late. Maimie might have caught the illness already—as likely as not—and she had better stay and be nursed by us.”
It was only for Maimie’s sake that the suggestion had been made. We were glad enough to keep her.
I was quite determined, however, that she should not run needlessly into the way of infection. Measles generally is a slight enough complaint; but Maimie was delicate, and I wanted to keep her well. Maimie resisted, yet for a time she gave way, and was in quarantine.
When Ted was getting well, Bob sickened. I counted my three elder ones safe, for they had all had measles in childhood. But strange to say, Cherry took it again. She would not believe herself to be sickening for measles, and went about as usual, and had a chill, which checked the rash. For some days she was really ill.
By that time my hands were more than full, and I was getting knocked up. I still forbad Maimie to go near the invalids, though she begged and entreated, even with tears, to be allowed; and my husband thought I might yield. If she were disposed to take the infection, he believed she would take it in spite of precautions.
I held to my own plan for a day or two longer. Then one evening I was very poorly. Maimie did all she could for me, and presently, with a resolute face, she walked out of the room. When she came back, it was to say, “Aunt Marion, I have seen them.”
“Seen who?” I asked.
“Cherry and the boys. I’ve been to them. I must help you, and I don’t believe I shall catch the measles. It isn’t my way to take infection easily. And I thought I would settle the matter by going in without your leave. So now it is no use keeping me away from them any longer; and if I were to be ill, you wouldn’t blame yourself.” Then with wistful looks she added, “Say you forgive me.”
Sorry as I was, I did not know how to be angry. The girl’s eagerness to help sprang so entirely from loving and unselfish motives. Better that a hundred times, I thought, than to have her like Churton, bent only on taking care of herself. Yet when, an hour or two later, she said anxiously, “Do you really think I was wrong?” I answered, “Not right, Maimie.”
“But I can’t be sorry,” she said. “It does make me so happy to help you.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “It is all your love for me; and the wish to help is all right. But obedience would have been more right.”
She gave me a kiss and turned away, half smiling, half sighing.
It really did seem for a while as if Maimie would escape. The two little boys were well again, and Cherry was out of her room, only rather pulled down still. We were beginning to talk about soon being safe people for friends to visit.
And then Maimie seemed unwell; and she had a heavy cold; and suspicious signs appeared. The doctor one day looked doubtful; and next day he came again and ordered her to bed; and the third day we knew that measles once more was in full swing.
“O dear, I am sorry,” Maimie said in distress. “It will just give trouble to everybody. But please don’t stay in my room, Aunt Marion. I’ll just do as I’m bid, and keep quiet and warm for three or four days; and I dare say it will soon go off.”
Privately I feared she might be in for a worse attack than she expected. Maimie was a feverish subject. And my fear proved only too well grounded.
Not one of the others—not even Cherry—had suffered as she did; and certainly none had been more patient. Somehow, though we had been careful of her from the first, and though we knew of no direct chill, the rash would not come out properly, and fever ran high. We could not leave her alone at night, for she was often wandering.
Churton came to the front door now and then to ask questions; but he would not step inside. He said it was “unnecessary” and “best not.”
I told him one day that Maimie was very very ill; and the doctor thought she might not get over it. He said, “Poor little woman! I can’t think how in the world you managed to get measles into your house!”—as if that were our fault.
I said, “Will you not wish to see her, Churton, if she is taken worse?”
He was standing three or four yards off from me, and looked by no means inclined to fall in with my suggestion.
“Well—no—I don’t see any use.” he said. “I couldn’t do her any good by coming. And the old lady would not like it.”
“You need not call at 'The Gables’ the same day, after seeing Maimie,” I said.
“Well—no,” Churton answered again. “But it isn’t exactly a matter of calling. I’m staying there just now. It seems a comfort to Aunt Briscoe. And of course I feel bound to consult her feelings.”
“You have not told us that before,” I said.
“Didn’t I? How stupid of me! I’ve only been there a—well, a few days. Last week, wasn’t it? I suppose I forgot. You and I don’t see much of one another just now—that’s the fact.”
“Then if Maimie were worse—if she were even dying,” I said, “you would not come to her?”
“Well, I don’t really see much good,” he said hesitatingly. “I’m not a hand at sick people, and I don’t like scenes. And, after all, it’s adding to risks of infection; and one has no business to spread things.”
“And if she should ask for you, Churton?”
“Oh, she won’t; there’s no fear. The girl’s changed, and doesn’t care for me. Not that I mean to give her up—if—but still—”
And Churton went off, while I returned to Maimie’s side, musing on the selfishness of the man.
One day, when very ill, Maimie said sadly, “I am so sorry.”
“Sorry for what, darling?” I asked.
“My wilfulness. It was wrong,” she said. “I see that now. I was right to want to help you; but I ought not to have taken my own way.”
“It was lovingly meant, Maimie.”
“Yes; but it was choosing my own way. You had forbidden me, and disobedience couldn’t be right. I have brought all this on myself.”
“You might have caught the measles anyhow.”
“O yes, I might; I know that. And then I should have known it was God’s sending; but now I know I brought it on myself. So good of you all not to reproach me.”
“Maimie, you must not let the thought be a trouble to you,” I said.
“No,” she answered at once, with a smile. “O no; because I think I did mean rightly at the moment. And I have prayed; and the Lord Jesus will forgive, won’t He? Because He is faithful and just to forgive us’—you know.”
“Faithful according to His promises,” I said softly.
“Yes—promises. He has promised all who come to Him, I needn’t be afraid. Aunt Marion, if I shouldn’t get better, you will know that,—you will know that He is my Saviour—my own Saviour.”
“It is such a happy thing to be able to say so,” I whispered.
“Yes; oh, He is; I know He is. But I don’t feel impatient now, as I once did. I have such a dear home. Only if I must leave my home, I would rather not leave it to live with father.”
“We mustn’t be bent upon choosing for ourselves,” I said.
“No; to be willing, whatever God sends,” she said earnestly, and she clasped her hands. “Well, I think I am willing. I do want not to be wilful. That has always been my fault; and it brings punishment sometimes.”
Then she was tired, and said no more. We had such little talks now and then; she seemed not to mind what she said to me.
Poor Jack! I hardly know how he got through those long days of anxiety. It was bad enough for Cherry and me, though we could at least be with Maimie, and could feel that we were doing something for her. But Jack, outside the room, and obliged to be for hours away in the city, giving his mind to work,—poor Jack was sorely tried.
There came days soon when talking on Maimie’s part was impossible, and anxiety was at its height. Inflammation of the lungs set in, and Maimie was so ill that we almost despaired of her recovery. Measles had now passed into another kind of illness; and it did seem to me as if there could be very little risk of infection for a man of Churton’s age. But Churton did not see it so at all. He said she was in the same room still, and he saw no use in running a venture; and he came less and less often to the house to make inquiries.
At last the worst was over, and Maimie began to improve, slowly, and not steadily. Days grew into weeks, and better times were followed by relapses. From the time when Maimie first sickened, it was ten weeks before she could leave her room; and then Jack carried her downstairs as if she had been a baby, she had grown so wasted and light.
CHURTON had not been near us for three weeks, when Maimie left her room. He had written once, just a line, to say he was glad to hear she was better, and to enclose a cheque for £20. This had been a great help; indeed, I hardly know how we could have got on without it. But after that we heard no more; and for two weeks Aunt Briscoe had not written either. I could not understand this, unless she were ill; she had always been so very regular.
“Father doesn’t seem to trouble himself much about me,” Maimie said softly, as she lay on the sofa, looking so pale and thin, poor child, with her flaxen hair short and curly, and her black eyes seeming to have grown to twice their usual size.
“So much the better,” Jack said, bending over her with a manly protecting air, which it did me good to see. Jack had grown far more manly of late. Time enough that he should too! “So much the better! Uncle isn’t worth your troubling yourself about; and the less he concerns himself with you, the thoroughly you are ours—ours, Maimie.”
“I am not sure, Jack,” she said, looking up in his face. “One never can tell what my father means to do next.”
“He has given up his right over you,” Jack said stoutly.
“He was glad to get somebody else to nurse me, and save him the trouble. But when he wants me, he won’t count that anything.”
“What should he want you for?” asked Cress. “I don’t see!” And we all laughed, for certainly Cress was paying Maimie a poor compliment.
“I don’t know why anybody should want me,” Maimie said merrily. “But sometimes I think he will soon.”
“You know why some do,” Jack said softly. “You know why we all do, Maimie,—because we love you.”
“And perhaps father loves me too,” she answered lightly. “I used to think he did.”
“Queer sort of love,—to care so much about himself as never to wish to come near you all the time you were ill!”
“Some people’s love is very poor and selfish,” I said; “yet I suppose it is love—of a kind.”
“Feeble kind,” remarked Jack.
“Only 'some’ will 'dare to die’—even 'for a good man,’” I said, thinking of the Bible words. And I thought, too, silently of that other yet more wonderful love—the great love of the Son of God, which could make Him “dare to die,” not for good but for evil men, that they might be saved. Glancing at Maimie, I wondered if the same recollection had come to here—such a sweet look passed over her face.
“People are rather fond of talking about dying for one another,” Cress observed carelessly. “It isn’t so many that will really do it.”
“No,—only 'some,’” I said.
And I heard Jack whisper, leaning over Maimie’s couch—
“Maimie, when you were so ill, I think I could have died to make you well.”
“Yes,” she answered quite simply; “I think you would, Jack.” And a great tremor of joy crept over Jack’s frame.
I could not help noticing how Maimie seemed to depend on Jack, and to turn to him in her weakness. He was so strong, she said, and so gentle too. He could carry her up and downstairs without any seeming effort. And Maimie needed carrying for many days. She regained strength so very slowly. I wondered often whether she ever would get back her usual powers.
“Aunt Marion, Jack seems much older than he used to be,” she said one day. “I wonder why?”
“Trouble ages people,” I replied.
“Trouble?” she repeated inquiringly.
“Our Maimie being ill.”
“Oh—” and she smiled, then grew thoughtful. “I didn’t understand. Yes—I suppose Jack did care. He is very good to me.” And I could not refrain from repeating her words to Jack.
The little rivalry between Jack and Cress seemed lately to have died down. Jack’s superior bodily strength gave him a sort of right to do things for Maimie; and Cress was placed at a disadvantage. Also he had lately taken up a new pursuit—chemistry, I think it was, just then,—and he had no attention to give to anything else.
That was always Cress’ way. He had one matter in hand, and all else gave way to it, whether it were study, or amusement, or love-making. This is not, perhaps, a bad characteristic in moderation, if perseverance goes with it. But in Cress’ case, unfortunately, there was no moderation, and there was little perseverance. Cress rarely or never went on long enough with any one pursuit to excel in it. He only did enough to amuse himself, to bore everybody about him, and to gain a certain amount of general information beyond that of most young men.
But by the time Maimie was able to sit up in an easy chair, and to walk on her own feet from room to room, chemistry went down, and love-making came up again.
Maimie was one of those people who make attractive invalids. Though not so strictly pretty as in health, she never complained or looked peevish, and her smile seemed to gain double sweetness, while her very want of power made her cling to us all in a gentle childlike way, which was particularly winning.
Cress seemed all at once to wake up to the fact that Jack was in a different position from himself with respect to Maimie, and he grew furiously jealous. Not a cup of tea could Jack attempt to carry to Maimie without Cress rushing in between. Not a question could Maimie put to Jack without Cress snatching the answer from his lips.
For a few days there was no real collision. Jack flushed up often, and evidently had difficulty in controlling himself; yet he did control himself. Once I heard, “Really, Cress—” but Jack caught himself up, and yielded. I knew my boy to be fighting a hard battle; and Maimie must have known it too, for I saw her soon after give him her sweetest smile. I think Jack was fully repaid.
A day or two later Maimie was not so well; and after a fit of faintness, she was going to be helped upstairs by Jack. Cress pushed in between, to take his place. Jack flushed up again, and said, “No, Cress, I must do this.”
“You’ve had your turn often enough; it’s mine now,” Cress said.
I was not on the spot, having been called away two seconds before. Cherry meditated calling me, but before she could move Maimie was saying quietly, “Jack will help me, if you please, Cress.”
“No, he won’t. I’m going to do it, Maimie.”
She drew back a step, very pale,—so Cherry told me after,—and with her eyes wide open. “No,” she said, “I would rather have Jack’s arm.”
Cress turned white too, as he often did with passion. “I say, Maimie,” he said, “if you pretend to like that fellow better than me—”
I don’t know what made Maimie act as she did next, except that she was excited and faint, and a little off her balance. She turned round, and laid her hand on Jack’s arm, and said, “Yes, I do like Jack much the best.”
“Then take that,” Cress said furiously, turning upon Jack; and without a moment’s warning he struck his brother a violent blow in the face.
Such a thing had never happened in our house before, and Cherry stood utterly aghast.
Jack’s blood was easily roused; and though he had learned much self-control of late years, I think this sudden attack was too much for him. He flushed a burning crimson, and made one step towards Cress, with his fist up; but in that moment Maimie flung herself on him, clinging to both his arms with all her little strength.
“Don’t! don’t! O don’t, Jack!” she cried wildly. “It is all my fault. O don’t,—dear Jack, don’t be angry,—don’t mind. It will grieve Aunt Marion so; and it isn’t right—it isn’t right. You mustn’t quarrel because of me. O Jack, don’t!—dear Jack, do be patient! O Cherry, help me.”
“No, Maimie, I won’t,” Jack said gravely.
Cherry told me that it was wonderful to see how the flush and anger died out of his face at the touch of Maimie’s fingers. She held him tightly still; and he submitted to be held, though he could have shaken her off like a fly.
Cress for one moment had a look of shame, and then his wrath seemed to flame up afresh, and he said contemptuously, “Well, I didn’t think you were such a chicken-heart!”
“Do you really think I am, Cress?” asked Jack calmly.
“Cress, it is you who are the coward!” cried Maimie, looking up at him with tearful eyes, and shrinking closer to Jack, as if for protection, though she continued to hold his hands.
Either the words or the gesture excited Cress anew beyond control. He made a step forward and struck at Jack again. Jack made no effort at all to release his hands or to defend himself; but Maimie threw up her own arm between, and received the blow,—no light one.
Just at that moment I came in. Cherry had called for me at the door, and then rushed forward to pull Cress back. As I entered, I heard the sound of his fist striking our darling’s poor thin arm.
Cress’ passion seemed suddenly at an end. He stepped back, and fell into sudden silence.
Cherry said only, “Cress! for shame!” and Jack uttered one groan of distress. Maimie gave a little half-sob, and then looked up at Jack with a smile. But the next instant her head drooped with a return of faintness. Jack caught her up like an infant, and carried her to the sofa. She lay there, white and still, while Cherry and I sought remedies, and Jack knelt by her side, kissing passionately the reddened arm.
“Mother, look!” he said. “Look,—the poor darling! Mother!—Cress deserves—he deserves—”
Maimie opened her eyes. “No, don’t, Jack,” she whispered. “Don’t talk of Cress yet.”
“I could bear anything else,—anything but his laying a finger on you,” Jack said in a choked voice.
“He did not mean to touch me. Cress has punished himself—quite enough,” she murmured. “Jack—look happy again,—don’t look like that.”
He did his best to obey; not very successfully.
The faintness soon passed off, but Maimie seemed so shaken and unnerved that Jack had presently to carry her upstairs.
“I am very sorry,” she said gently, as he laid her on the bed.
“I think I am the one to be most sorry,” Jack answered. “To think of your dear little arm being hurt for me! Maimie, you must never do such a thing again.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t then, if I had had time to think,” she said. “But what I am sorry for, is that I should have said anything to make Cress angry with you. Only I really cannot like him as much as—as everybody else in this house.”
“Not quite so much as you do me,” Jack said in a humble voice. “Maimie dear, you said that,—please don’t explain it away.”
“Well, it is true,” she said, smiling. “I do like you the best of the two, certainly. Thank you, Jack. Good-night.”
“And your arm doesn’t hurt very much?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” she said cheerfully. But Cherry and I knew by the great bruise on it next day that she must have had a good deal of pain.
I dreaded much the moment of my boys’ meeting again. Jack, however, was on his guard, and showed no irritation of manner; nothing beyond an unwonted gravity. Cress looked morose and gloomy, and would speak pleasantly to no one. I hardly knew how to deal with him, and asked Robert to take the matter up. My husband was not one of those men whose wives are afraid to ask them to find fault, lest they should say too much, and “provoke their wrath,” instead of arousing them to sorrow. So I put the difficulty into his hands.
MY husband had a serious talk with Cress that same evening, and warned him that nothing of the kind must ever happen again. He spoke gently but very firmly about the evil of giving way to such anger, and of the terrible results which might some day follow. I do not think he said more than a few strong words, enough to impress without irritating. It is common to crowd on far too many words in fault-finding. But Robert happily never had that way with our boys. Just enough and no more seemed to be his rule.
Cress listened at first sullenly, making no answer. But when Robert said, “I think you have punished yourself with a worse punishment than anybody else could have given you—” Cress burst out, “I don’t see that!”
“In having hurt Maimie, I mean,” Robert explained.
“It was Maimie’s own fault. What business had she to come between?” demanded Cress.
And from that hour neither Robert nor I put any faith in the reality of Cress’ love to Maimie.
But for the time he counted it genuine himself, and acted accordingly. Some boys in his position might have been laughed out of a shallow fancy such as this. Cress, however, was not one to stand being laughed at, even if any of us had been in the mood for joking.
He did not come to me for comfort in his trouble, as Jack sooner or later always did. Once or twice I tried to reach Cress’ feelings, and failed. He sheered off from me at once.
During the next few days, things were, to say the least, uncomfortable. Jack really did behave beautifully, keeping down his temper in manly style, or rather, I should say, in Christian style. But the one word fits in well with the other.
Jack was manly by nature; and his religion had a thoroughly manly cast about it. Real humility and real meekness in a man are always manly. There never was any man more nobly and fully a Man, more full of manly dignity and courage and self-control, in all His meekness, than our Master Himself. If only His followers took after Him more! I get out of patience sometimes with weak complaining creatures, who seem to think their feebleness and want of spirit means meekness. And I get just as much out of patience with the rough coarse rudeness and brag which tramples on everything weak, and pretends to be manliness.
Those ways are not really meek or manly. But I do think it was genuine meekness and manliness together when my Jack stood still, in his strength, held by Maimie’s slight hands, while Cress struck at him, and he made no effort to defend himself,—Cress, whom he could have mastered in an instant. And I do think it was true manly and Christian meekness again, when Jack went in and out without a sign of anger or disdain towards Cress—though he had cause enough for anger, not so much in the treatment of himself as in the treatment of Maimie, whom he so passionately loved.
Did Maimie begin to value more what he felt towards her? I asked myself this question often, and could not be sure as to the answer; only her manner towards him was certainly different after the day of Cress’ outbreak. It became more shy, yet more confiding. She seemed to turn to Jack constantly for help or advice, without knowing that she did so.
Towards Cress she showed no annoyance, any more than Jack did; but she treated him with a quiet distant politeness, and allowed him to do nothing for her. Cress chafed under this. I was afraid one day that a struggle would begin again between the brothers. Maimie had asked Jack to mend a little box for her, and he gladly undertook it. Cress pushed forward in his old style, and said, “Let me, Maimie.”
“I have asked Jack,” she said.
“That doesn’t matter, I’ll do it better than Jack can.”
“I don’t want it better. Jack’s workmanship is good enough for me.”
“Thank you, Maimie,” Jack said.
“Jack is not going to do this,” Cress said wrathfully.
And I was going to interfere; but I saw that there was no need. Maimie gave one look at Jack, and then turned her eyes full upon Cress, with a kind of dignified reproach. As she did so, she drew up the sleeve of her right arm, and showed the large bruise there, becoming now a cloud of purple and yellow.
“You don’t mean to say you haven’t forgiven me that yet,” Cress said testily.
“You have never asked me to forgive you.”
“It was a mere accident. If you had not come between—”
“Yes. But a gentleman always begs pardon for even the merest accident, which this was not,” she said, in a marked manner.
“It was an accident, Maimie.”
“It was temper, Cress.”
Cress flung himself out of the room in a pet, and did not appear again for a good while. Maimie looked thoughtful after his departure. “Cress is very rude and disagreeable,” she said at length. “He wants setting to rights. But perhaps I am not the best person to do it.”
“He will stand more from you than from anybody,” Cherry remarked.
“No, I think not. I think that the less I have to do with Cress the better, just now.”
That same evening, when I was alone in my room, Cress tapped and entered. He had on his gloomy look—a look which far too often spoilt his otherwise handsome face. I was mending a shirt of my husband’s, and I stood beside the dressing-table, needle in hand. Cress flung himself into a chair, and said—
“Mother, I want to go away.”
My heart sank low; for Cress, with all his faults, was very dear to me; and I had counted on keeping him at home for many years. I do not think mothers love their children less on account of their faults; and perhaps it is only mothers of whom this can be said. Unrestrained tempers, selfish and unpleasant ways, do chill the love of husbands and wives, of sisters, brothers, and friends; but, as a rule, not the love of mothers.
“Go where, Cress?” I asked, though in a moment I seemed to understand what he had in his mind.
“I don’t care. Anywhere, so long as it is away from here. I’m sick of home. I can’t stay any longer, and see Jack go on as he does with Maimie.”
“I do not really think you have any just cause of complaint with Jack.”
“Oh, Jack is perfect, of course,—never does wrong, and never did! That does not touch the question. Maimie likes him best.”
I made no answer. Cress turned more fully towards me, repeating in a fierce tone, “Maimie likes him best.”
“Yes, I think she does,” I said. “And I do not wonder. It is partly your own fault. Why do you not behave differently?”
“Behave differently! I behave as I choose,” Cress answered; and the tone was the rudest he had ever addressed to his mother.
“If that is the way you are going to speak to me, we had better not discuss the subject any longer,” I said coldly.
I think there was a moment’s struggle, and then he said, with a manner of half apology, “I didn’t mean to vex you, mother. But, you see, I’m not Jack; and I never shall be. If I could, I wouldn’t.”
“There are great differences between you and Jack,” I said. “One great difference is that Jack’s first wish is to serve God; and your first wish is—I am afraid—only to gratify yourself.”
Was it wise to speak so plainly? I hardly know. The words came out under a sudden impulse.
“Oh, of course, he is all good, and I’m all bad. But anyway, things can’t go on like this. I mean to go away.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’ve told you. I can’t keep smooth with that fellow, if Maimie really likes him best. And I suppose she does. She said so, and she shows it in her manner, plain enough.”
“'That fellow!’ Your own brother, Cress!”
“It doesn’t matter what he is called. Mother, if I stay here, I can’t keep straight with him. You and father had better let me go.”
“For how long?” I asked in distress.
“Any time. It doesn’t signify to me. The longer the better.”
I would not take up the idea seriously then, and tried to put it aside. But Cress brought it forward again and again, persistently, day after day. He said he was sick of London, and sick of home; and he wanted to see the world. After a while Robert and I began to feel that it might really be best. The constant strain between the two brothers was unsafe. Anything seemed better than to risk an open and permanent breach.
So Robert consulted with his and Cresswell’s employers, explaining how things stood, and asking their advice. He was most kindly met. They were just wanting to send out a young man to India on business, and they thought Cress might do. He was young, and a little disposed to laziness, they said, but hitherto he had on the whole proved capable and trustworthy. So they were willing to make trial of him in this new capacity.
The matter was quickly settled. Cress seemed delighted with the proposal; and very soon his mind was so full of coming travels, that he seemed quite to lose sight of his trouble about Maimie and his anger with Jack. Nothing was to be heard from him but talk about his outfit, his ship, his future tiger-hunts, and so on. Very short time was allowed for preparation, and perhaps this was so much the better.
Had my husband deferred speaking one day longer to his employers, it would have been too late; for the vacant post would have been filled up. As time went on, I felt thankful that the “one day longer” had not been allowed to pass. Much as I felt parting with Cress, I could not but see the plan to be a wise one.
All this while we heard no news of Aunt Briscoe. It seemed very extraordinary, and puzzled us much. I wrote again and again, but no answer came. Churton too seemed to have disappeared out of our life, neither calling nor sending a word by post. Without leave we dared not go to “The Gables.” Aunt Briscoe might not yet consider us safe.
“The truth is, Robert, mischief is going on there,” I said one day, breaking out with a thought which had long been in my mind.
“What sort of mischief?” Robert asked.
“Churton is gaining an influence over Aunt Briscoe’s mind, for his own ends. Perhaps he is setting her against us.”
“My dear, that is rather a wild supposition.”
“I don’t see it. A quarrel between her and us would be to his advantage.”
“There can’t well be a quarrel all on one side.”
“No. But he might turn her against us.”
“Why should he?”
“For selfish ends,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation.
Robert did not seem to understand, and I grew impatient.
“Can’t you see, Robert? She has property, and Churton would not mind a little more money than he has.”
“Perhaps nobody would. But I wouldn’t be suspicious,” Robert said gravely. Yet it seemed to me from his manner that the same idea had occurred to him before.
“What if it is more than a mere suspicion?” I asked.
“We have no real grounds for supposing anything of the kind. Churton is always indolent about writing; and Aunt Briscoe is always nervous about infection. This illness has unfortunately kept us all apart for a long while; but quarantine cannot be kept up much longer. It has reached already to an absurd extent. When we are in and out again at 'The Gables,’ all will come right.”
“I am not so sure,” I said.
EARLY in February Cress left us; and I had more comfort in my boy before he sailed than in all his previous life. He seemed softened, and less full of self; and he let me speak to him loving words of advice and warning, such as generally he would not hear at all. He took away my Bible with him—the one I had used for years—and he promised faithfully to read it every day, which was a real joy to me.
Jack knew of this gift of mine to Cress. The very evening after Cress was gone, he brought to me a beautiful new Bible, bound in dark morocco, with gilt edges,—far handsomer outside than my dear old Bible, which it cost me a wrench to part with.
At first I hardly seemed to know my way about in this new Bible. Every page of the old one had its own memories, sweet or bitter, and hardly a page was without at least one chosen text, lightly marked. Here all the pages were fresh and new and unfamiliar. And yet they were familiar, for they spoke the same words. It was the same Book, the same wonderful Bible, the same message of my loving God to me. And the gift had come as a fresh token of my eldest boy’s thoughtful care for his mother.
It really did seem to Robert and myself absurd to suppose ourselves any longer in quarantine. So one day he went by train to “The Gables,” not giving any warning.
But he was not admitted. The servant—a new one—looked doubtfully at him, and said that Mr. Hazel was out, and her mistress was busy. Robert pressed her to take in his name, saying he was sure Mrs. Briscoe would see him if she knew him to be there. The girl replied rather pertly that she was sure Mrs. Briscoe would not.
Robert felt convinced from her manner that his approach to the house had been seen, and that the girl had been instructed what to say. Still, he insisted on sending a message. The girl went away, and presently returned to say that Mrs. Briscoe was sorry not to see him. She was unwell, and afraid of measles.
“Rubbish!” Jack said, when Robert told us this.
“What did you do then, father?” asked Cherry.
“The only thing I could do, my dear; I came away.” Maimie’s eyes roved from one to another, and I saw that she was deep in thought.
We wrote letters again, both to Aunt Briscoe and to Churton; but no answers came.
Jack made the next attempt. He went to “The Gables” without telling any one beforehand, and presented a sturdy front. First, he insisted on seeing Churton,—“his uncle, Mr. Hazel,” and he was informed that “Mr. Hazel was out.”
Jack did not believe the assertion, but he could not disprove it. Next, he tried hard to see Aunt Briscoe. She sent word to him that she was afraid of measles. Jack sent word to her that we had been free from measles in our house “for months.” Aunt Briscoe returned answer that she was poorly. Jack answered, through the girl, that he was very sorry, but he would not tire her or keep her long. Aunt Briscoe replied by a message that she was “engaged.” Jack sent her word that it didn’t matter; he would wait any time; might he go to the study? So at last there came a very plain message that Mrs. Briscoe refused to see her nephew, and he might go. Whereupon Jack said “Good-morning” to the servant, and walked away.
“No use staying any longer, you see,” he said, when relating to us his adventures. “One can’t exactly force one’s way in. But it is very unfortunate. The old lady has evidently taken offence at something or other.”
I looked up and saw again that thoughtful expression in Maimie’s face. She seemed lost in serious consideration.
Later in the day, when I was alone, she came to me, and said—
“Aunt Marion, what does it mean?”
“What, Maimie?” I asked; for at the moment I was thinking about Cress, not about Aunt Briscoe.
“My father staying away, and Aunt Briscoe seeing nobody,” she said.
“I don’t know. I wish I did,” was my answer.
“Is she inclined to take offence?”
“I believe so; but we have never offended her before. Nor have we done so now—knowingly.”
“You have done nothing that could rightly give offence. It is Aunt Briscoe and my father who have kept aloof from you, not you who have kept aloof from them.”
“Yes; but she is growing old, and old people often have fancies.”
“Would it matter to you if Aunt Briscoe really were seriously offended,—or if she changed? Are you so very fond of her?”
“I believe my husband loves her for the sake of old days, and for the sake of her dear old husband,” I said. “No; I am not so fond of her as I ought to be, Maimie.”
“Then it would not really matter much?”
“Not in that way.”
“But in some other way?” Maimie asked with quickness.
“It is not a thing we talk about much,” I said, after a pause. “But there is no harm in your knowing the fact. Mrs. Briscoe is very comfortably off, and my husband has always been looked upon as her probable heir.”
“I see,” Maimie said, a change passing over her face,—a look coming of sudden comprehension and fear.
“Mr. Briscoe used to speak openly of his intention to leave everything to your uncle. It would be only just. There is no nearer relative, and my husband is older than your stepfather, so he has the first right. It used to be an understood thing. But Mr. Briscoe died very suddenly, leaving everything in his wife’s hands. If he had had longer warning, I feel sure he would have arranged somehow so as to secure the money to Robert! Since his death, Aunt Briscoe has taken care to make us feel that she is at liberty to dispose of her property as she likes. And, of course, she really is free,—except that she would naturally be bound by her husband’s wishes. I have always felt that she would in the end do the right and just thing, unless we should be so unfortunate as to offend her. She has not a very happy temper.”
It seemed a relief to me to say all this, with Maimie’s earnest eyes looking into mine.
“And now you think she is offended?”
“I don’t know how else to explain the way in which she is holding off from us. But it is mysterious, for certainly there is no real cause.”
A flush rose in Maimie’s face, crimsoning the fair skin up to the roots of her hair.
“It is not mysterious,” she said in a low voice. “Father is there.”
We were both silent for a minute. Maimie turned her face away, but I could see how the flush died away, and returned with double force.
“Maimie dear, you must not trouble yourself about what can’t be helped,” I said.
She came towards me then, and flung herself down with her face on my knees.
“Oh, it seems as if I brought you nothing but harm, nothing but harm!” she cried. “And it is all my own wilfulness. If I had not been ill you would not have been away so long from 'The Gables!’ And now I don’t know what to do.”
“Only don’t grieve, Maimie,” I whispered. Somehow none of us could ever bear to see Maimie unhappy.
“I have brought you nothing but trouble,” she moaned. “All the expense and worry; and no return. And Cress having to go away because of me. O yes, I know it has been that, though nobody says so. Cress would not have gone, if I had not been here. I didn’t see it in time, or I would have gone away myself. And Jack is unhappy too. And now there is this about Aunt Briscoe. Nothing but trouble and loss,—all through me. I don’t know how to bear it.”
I did not know how to comfort her at first. There was just so much truth in the words as to make denial of them impossible. And yet we all loved her far too well to wish that Churton had never sent her to our house.
“Maimie, hush,—you must hush,” I said at length. “You make me feel that I was wrong to speak freely to you as I did just now. These things are not in our hands; and we must not wish to choose for ourselves. It was God who gave you to us, and I always look upon you as one of His dearest gifts to me in life,—only next to my own children. You are ours, and you will be ours still, even if your father takes you away for a time.”
“But Cress!”
“Cress had to go—because of his want of self-government. That was the real reason, not his love to you. It does not seem to me that his love for you is worth much. Just a passing fancy.”
“O I am so glad you think so,” she said, with a deep sigh.
“I know my boys’ weaknesses, and I don’t underrate their faults. Cress has great faults,—still I am hopeful for his future. I do not believe he will be any the worse for two years’ absence just now.”
“I am glad you think so,” she repeated. “But now—this about father.”
“You cannot do anything there. You have not the mastery of your father’s conscience.”
“No. But you think there is something—he is making mischief, perhaps?”
“I know Churton,” I said gravely, “perhaps more truly than my husband does. I have suspected for a long while that things were going wrong.”
She pressed her hands together, and murmured, “What can I do?”
“Nothing. The whole affair is in higher Hands, Maimie; and there we must leave it.”
“But one may act—one may do,” she said eagerly. “We must pray first, of course. But if one could do anything too, it would not be wrong. If we can’t, we must only wait.”
And then she sprang to her feet with sparkling eyes.
“I know! I know! I shall write to father.”
“My dear, we have written again and again.”
“Yes; but this time I shall write. You will see!”
“What are you going to say, my dear?”
“That I must see him; and if he doesn’t come to me, I shall go to him.”
“And if he does not come—”
“I am going to write so that he will come. I shall tell him I have something to say, and must see him.”
“But, Maimie, you cannot breathe a word to him of this fancy of ours—this suspicion. I am not sure that we are right to speak of it, even to one another.”
“I shall not say the very least word of that to him. How could I? I should not dare! O no,—not to him, or to anybody. But I have something that I must say. Yes, I know now what to do.” Then she paused, with a saddened look and a sigh. “Yes, I must,” she repeated. “It is only right. If I can stop this wrong, I will. But please don’t ask me any more questions just now.”
And I did not.
MAIMIE wrote and posted her letter within half-an-hour. Then she came to me, carrying a scrawled pencil-copy, which she placed in my hand.
“I thought it best not to show you the real letter before I sent it off,” she said. “Please read this, Aunt Marion.”
And I read, not without surprise:—