“DEAR FATHER,—I begin to think you have forgotten me.It is so very long since you have been to the house.”“I want very much to see you now—very much indeed—toask you a question. Please come and see me. If youcannot come here, then I will come to you. Aunt Briscoecannot really be afraid of infection now. It must beeither a mistake, or a silly fancy of the servant.If I have to come to 'The Gables,’ I shall not let hersend me away, as she sent Jack away. Measles was reallyat an end months ago.”“The question I want to ask is about myself. Nobodyknows anything of it except myself; and nobody in thehouse will read this letter before it goes off. But,father, I must see you, please. One way or another,I MUST.”“I am, your affectionate daughter,”“MAIMIE.”
“DEAR FATHER,—I begin to think you have forgotten me.It is so very long since you have been to the house.”“I want very much to see you now—very much indeed—toask you a question. Please come and see me. If youcannot come here, then I will come to you. Aunt Briscoecannot really be afraid of infection now. It must beeither a mistake, or a silly fancy of the servant.If I have to come to 'The Gables,’ I shall not let hersend me away, as she sent Jack away. Measles was reallyat an end months ago.”“The question I want to ask is about myself. Nobodyknows anything of it except myself; and nobody in thehouse will read this letter before it goes off. But,father, I must see you, please. One way or another,I MUST.”“I am, your affectionate daughter,”“MAIMIE.”
“DEAR FATHER,—I begin to think you have forgotten me.It is so very long since you have been to the house.”“I want very much to see you now—very much indeed—toask you a question. Please come and see me. If youcannot come here, then I will come to you. Aunt Briscoecannot really be afraid of infection now. It must beeither a mistake, or a silly fancy of the servant.If I have to come to 'The Gables,’ I shall not let hersend me away, as she sent Jack away. Measles was reallyat an end months ago.”“The question I want to ask is about myself. Nobodyknows anything of it except myself; and nobody in thehouse will read this letter before it goes off. But,father, I must see you, please. One way or another,I MUST.”“I am, your affectionate daughter,”“MAIMIE.”
“DEAR FATHER,—I begin to think you have forgotten me.
It is so very long since you have been to the house.”
“I want very much to see you now—very much indeed—to
ask you a question. Please come and see me. If you
cannot come here, then I will come to you. Aunt Briscoe
cannot really be afraid of infection now. It must be
either a mistake, or a silly fancy of the servant.
If I have to come to 'The Gables,’ I shall not let her
send me away, as she sent Jack away. Measles was really
at an end months ago.”
“The question I want to ask is about myself. Nobody
knows anything of it except myself; and nobody in the
house will read this letter before it goes off. But,
father, I must see you, please. One way or another,
I MUST.”
“I am, your affectionate daughter,”
“MAIMIE.”
“Do you think your father will like that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said; “but it is true. I must see him. Things can’t go on like this. And the only way to bring him was to write strongly.”
“What is the question you have to ask, my dear?”
She looked at me, half sadly. “Can you wait till he comes? I’ll ask it before you, if you like. But I would rather not tell you now.”
Maimie had her own way as usual, and kept her little secret. I could have wished that the letter had been rather differently worded. However, it was gone and might not be recalled; and I would not worry Maimie by expressing my doubts more plainly, Later in the day I told my husband something of what had passed; and he and I waited curiously to see results.
Maimie was on the look-out next day. It reminded me of the time when she first came to us, and when she so eagerly watched for tidings of her stepfather. Every ring and every knock brought a flush into her face.
The morning passed thus, fruitlessly; and Maimie was growing pale with anxiety. A good part of the afternoon went in like manner. Maimie would not leave the house for a moment. Cherry had gone out to do some distant shopping. Robert and Jack were absent as usual at their work; and the younger boys were at school. Maimie and I sat alone together.
Suddenly there came a sharp knock, and again Maimie flushed and paled.
This time disappointment was not in store. The front door was opened, and immediately afterward Churton himself walked into the room.
He looked a little askance at me, I thought, and seemed relieved to find Robert absent. I noted an attempt at ease in his loud voice and would-be hearty manner.
“Well, Maimie,” he said, kissing her, “how do you do? Quite well, eh? That was a pretty imperious sort of letter you sent me yesterday, I must say! But you see I have come! What has gone wrong with you?”
“I did not say anything had gone wrong, father.”
“Something, I supposed. Or there’s something you want done. Anyway, I have come. So now you had better ask your question,—the quicker the better.”
“Presently,” Maimie said. “You will sit down and have a cup of tea first, father.”
“I don’t want tea, child. I’m dreadfully hurried,—haven’t a moment to spare.”
“You have not been to see us for a long while,” I remarked to him.
“Couldn’t possibly,—I have had too much on my hands. And I knew Maimie was all right again. Not but what she looks thin yet—thinner than she ought to be. But I’ve been busy. And the old lady has been ill; and she expects any amount of attention.”
“That is why she has not written then,” I said, and I looked at him.
“That’s why,” he answered; and his eyes roved about anywhere rather than meet mine, or so I thought.
“Is she ill now?”
“Well, she isn’t right yet,” said Churton. “Not up to visitors or letter-writing.”
“She has always wished to see us before, when she wasn’t well.”
“People change as they get older,” said Churton. “Anyhow, she seems to want to be quiet. Maimie, if you have anything to say, you had better say it quickly, for I must be off.”
“There’s plenty of time,” Maimie said quietly. I noticed with surprise that her lips were trembling.
“And I want very much to know more about Aunt Briscoe’s illness,” I added.
“It was a touch of bronchitis first, and she doesn’t get up strength after it,” replied Churton. “Plenty of time for you, perhaps, Maimie, but not for me. So if you don’t speak, I’m off. If you want to see me alone, I’ve no doubt your Aunt will excuse us;” and he made a movement as if to get up.
“No, thank you, father. I would rather a great deal that Aunt Marion should hear, only she must promise not to interrupt.”
“What! Am I to be tongue-tied, Maimie?”
“Just for a little while,” she said coaxingly. “I want to put my question in my own way, and to let father answer as he chooses.”
“That’s only fair,” Churton said; and I laughed, and promised to wait till I was appealed to. But I felt rather uneasy. Churton looked from one to the other of us, in a suspicious sort of way.
“It’s no use to look at me, Churton,” I said. “I have not the least idea what it is that Maimie means to say.”
Maimie sat facing Churton. The two were such a curious contrast. He had grown into a burly sort of man, too red in the face, and restless in manner. And Maimie was so fair and gentle, with her pale skin, and short flaxen hair, and dark eyes. She sat very still, with folded hands, while he kept up a continual fidget.
“Father, do I belong to you, or do I belong to Uncle Robert?”
The question took me by surprise, at least as much as it took Churton by surprise. I believe we both stared at her.
“What on earth is the girl driving at?” demanded Churton at length.
“It is a simple question,” Maimie said, speaking steadily, though her lips were pale. “Am I your child, or am I Uncle Robert’s child? Of course I am neither really,—but which am I to count myself?”
“I’ve not given you up, my girl,” said Churton.
“You mean that I am yours?”
“To be sure,—yes,—why not?” he asked.
“And you expect me to do as you wish about things, father,—and some day to live with you again?”
“To be sure,” he repeated.
“And meantime—all this while that I have been away from you—only you, and not Uncle Robert, have been responsible for my keep, and my education, and everything to do with me?”
Churton shuffled on his chair at this, as if he began to see whither Maimie’s “question” was tending. I sat in silent astonishment.
“I don’t suppose your uncle grudged you a shelter while I had no home to offer,” he said.
“I daresay not, father, but that has nothing to do with the question. You have never even given him the choice, whether to say 'yes’ or 'no.’ And it comes to this: if I am really your child, not his, then you and I have been robbing him for three years past.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” he said shortly. “Girls know nothing about such matters.”
“I know that you promised to pay my expenses when I left you to come to Uncle Robert.”
“Well, and haven’t I sent money?”
“Forty or fifty pounds,—for three years’ board and lodging, and nursing through two long illnesses! That—payment!” and her eyes flashed such scorn at the notion that he visibly recoiled.
“I daresay I shall be in a position some day to pay up all square,” he said.
“And until you can, I do not stay here, father.”
I had great difficulty in keeping my promise of silence. Churton shrugged his shoulders, and asked, “Where are you going?”
“To live with you,” she said.
He looked angry. “This is all nonsense, Maimie.”
“It is not nonsense,” she said calmly. “Father, you must listen to me, if you please. What I want to say is this,—that things cannot go on any longer as they have done. Uncle Robert and Aunt Marion may be willing, but I am not. I can’t go on living in a false position. It must be one thing or the other. Aunt Marion, please hush—just a little longer. I know I am right about this. Father, I mean what I say. If I am Uncle Robert’s child, then I have no more to do with you, any more than with any other mere acquaintance; and the arrangement of the last three years has been fair and right. But if I am your child, I will not live upon anybody else, and I must either live with you, or Uncle Robert must be paid for all my expenses.”
One thing was plain to me, in Churton’s face. He did not wish to give Maimie up. Whether he was jealous of her love for us,—whether he really did feel affection for her,—or whether he had schemes for the future in which he meant her to take a part,—I could not then decide. I have since been convinced that the last was the leading motive. But he did not mean to give her up.
“And suppose I say 'No’ to both?”
“You can’t,” she answered. “I don’t want to speak as I should not; but you are not my real father, and you have not acted a father’s part; and Uncle Robert has rights as well as you. He has been a father to me. I am not going on like this any longer. I will be either his or yours. If I am Uncle’s, I am his altogether, and I stay here. If I am yours, I come to you.”
“To 'The Gables!’ Nonsense!”
“It is not nonsense,” she said very quietly. “Aunt Briscoe once wished me to live there, and I would not. But I am willing to go now. Father, you may take me, or you may give me up. If you give me up, I know that Uncle Robert will adopt me.”
I began to understand what Maimie was aiming at. She meant to go to “The Gables,” to set things right, if possible, between Aunt Briscoe and my husband. The thought flashed upon me as I listened, and how I loved the child for her self-devotion! But could we let her go? What would Robert say? What would Jack think? Yet, if she and Churton settled it thus, had I any power to refuse my consent?
“And suppose I simply leave you alone for the present, and by-and-by claim you?” he asked roughly, as if to frighten her. “Who is to say me nay then?”
She drew up her fair head, and looked at him with a mantling blush. “I can be out of your reach then,” she said. “There is more than one who wishes to marry me.”
This shot struck. Maimie told me afterwards that she had kept it in reserve, only to be used in case of emergency.
Churton was visibly disconcerted.
“Absurd!—a chit of your age!” he said.
But from that moment Maimie had the game in her own hands.
“Well, well; we will think about it,” he said. “Perhaps the best plan would be to board you here for the present,—pay Robert so much.”
“O yes,” passed my lips.
“No,” said Maimie resolutely. “You have to pay him, father, but every pound you can spare must go to settling your debt for the past. If you gave him a cheque for one hundred pounds this minute, it would not cover all. No, father. If I am your child, I come to you for at least a visit, that we may decide together how much is already due to Uncle Robert. When that is settled, then I shall be glad enough to come back, paying my board, and making a fresh start.”
Churton sat in gloomy silence.
“But it must be decided soon one way or another,” pursued Maimie, in her soft resolute tones. “If I come to you, I come within a week from to-day; if not, then I shall feel free to decide on my own course independently.”
“You mean that you intend to marry. Who is the fellow?”
She turned scarlet, keeping her eyes on the ground.
“Well, it does not matter,” said Churton shortly. “I should not give my consent. Look here, Maimie,—as you are so bent on a point-blank decision, you shall have it. I’ll take you back with me this evening.”
She started as if with pain, and I exclaimed in distress.
“That’s enough about it,” said Churton roughly. “You’ve brought it on yourself, girl. Now you may take your choice. If you come to 'The Gables’ at all, you come in half-an-hour.”
“'This evening,’ you said, father?”
“This afternoon, I meant. I am going out to see somebody near, and I shall be back with a cab in half-an-hour. If you are not ready to start then, you may give up the idea of 'The Gables.’”
“I will be ready,” she said firmly.
“Maimie, Maimie, not without your Uncle’s consent,” I entreated.
“Then, or not at all,” said Churton.
“Then,” Maimie answered in the same tone.
“I cannot give my consent,” I said.
“Nobody asked it,” said Churton. “Don’t dawdle with your packing, child. I shall be back in half-an-hour, mind.”
And he strode out of the room, fuming.
AS Churton left the room, Maimie sprang across, and threw herself into my arms.
“O Aunt Marion!” and she gasped for breath.
“Maimie, how could you? We cannot part with you, darling.”
“Oh, it must be. It would have come to this sooner or later. Father will not give me up, you see. And I ought to be there,—I ought to be there.”
“But so short a notice,” I said sorrowfully.
“That is his way of punishing me. Was I wrong to speak to him as I did? I wish I could love him more. But don’t make me cry—don’t. I must go. O Aunt Marion!”
“What will your Uncle say?” I asked, with a kind of stunned feeling.
“I don’t know. You will tell him all. He will understand. And perhaps I shall only be a few days away. Father may get tired of me. I shall be on the spot, and perhaps I can do something—perhaps. But I must not waste time.”
She hurried upstairs, and threw her clothes into it trunk with feverish haste.
“I shall not take much,—only enough for a visit. Things can easily be sent or fetched. And this will always be home to me still—always. I shall try to come very soon and see you all. But if I don’t, you will understand. Perhaps at first he may not let me.”
I was weeping by this time, while Maimie seemed to have no tears to shed. She only looked flushed and burdened.
“Don’t cry,” she said once or twice, coming to cling to me. “O don’t! It has to be.”
“Maimie, I don’t think I can let you go like this.”
“But you must,” she said. “It is for Uncle’s sake, you know. I must see if things are going wrong, and if they can be put right. And by-and-by,—oh, it doesn’t do to look forward. We must trust for by-and-by.”
Not too much time was allowed. Half-an-hour had scarcely passed, when Churton’s steps sounded in the hall. Once more Maimie threw herself upon me, clinging passionately.
“Aunt Marion, it is hard to go; but I must; it does seem right. If I could but have seen dear, dear Uncle Robert again! And poor Jack,—you must give my love to him. Don’t tell him a word of that—you know—what I said to father about—about marrying.”
“No, darling,” I said; “I will not.”
“It was the only thing that really brought him to what I wanted. And it was true, wasn’t it?”
“True that you could—perhaps—make poor Jack happy?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. It was true that more than one wants to marry me.”
“And the other—is it not true, Maimie?”
She flushed brightly. “I don’t know,—I only said I could—I didn’t say I would. Perhaps,—but I must not think of that now. I have to do what father tells me. But tell Jack how sorry I am to say good-bye to him—to you all—for a few days. Perhaps it won’t be longer. Oh, I do wish I could thank you rightly for all your love and kindness to me.”
“Come, Maimie,” shouted Churton.
I ran downstairs first, and protested earnestly against this hurried departure, but in vain. “The girl had taken her choice, and she should abide by it,” Churton replied shortly. “He had no doubt she had been put up to all this by others.” Then Maimie followed me into the hall, and there was another good-bye, and she was gone.
And I sat alone in the parlour, desolate at heart, till Cherry came home, and heard all. We shed many tears together.
It was harder work to tell my husband, and hardest of all to tell Jack. I think they marvelled at me for letting Maimie go, and I marvelled at myself,—yet what could I have done? The whole thing seemed to come like a flash of lightning, all power being taken out of my hands.
“She is sacrificing herself for us, dear child,” Robert said, when he and I talked the matter over. “I do not know whether we ought to allow it—if we have power to refuse. But Churton has a certain authority over her.”
Jack vanished for a long while that evening, and when present with the rest of us, he scarcely spoke a word.
A WEEK passed, and not a word came from Maimie. It was strange how the days seemed to drag with us, and how we watched the posts, and how we all talked of Maimie, wondering each hour of the day what she might be doing.
A week gone by, patience failed, and a discussion took place as to whether my husband or Jack should go to “The Gables” and ask after Maimie. Jack then confessed rather penitently that he had already been, four days earlier, without asking our advice, and had been stiffly refused admission.
“Not wise, Jack,” my husband said; though of course Jack did not know, as we did, a certain little passage between Maimie and her stepfather, which made it advisable that Jack should not seem to be running after Maimie too solicitously. We did not suppose Churton would approve of Jack for her future husband. Probably he expected Maimie to marry what is called “well,” and to be in some way a means of gain to himself. Not that fathers—especially stepfathers—do generally gain much personally from a daughter’s wealthy marriage. But Churton was capable of such an expectation.
“No, I’m afraid it wasn’t wise,” Jack admitted regretfully. “Somehow, I have felt ashamed to speak of it.”
“They didn’t use the measles excuse again, I suppose?” said Cherry.
“No; the girl said Maimie and Uncle were both out, and would not be back till late, and her mistress wasn’t well enough for visitors. She had evidently been primed. I could do nothing with her.”
“One thing is certain,—Jack must not be the one to go again so soon,” I said. “Robert, I think it should be you this time.”
And so the matter was settled. My husband went next day, and we all awaited his return in a fever of anxiety, trying to laugh at one another for the same, yet feeling it none the less.
And at last my husband came back.
“Well,” he said, with a curious smile, “I have seen Maimie.”
“You have! I am glad,” I said; and a weight seemed to roll from my heart.
“Yes, I have seen her. But Churton was there all the time, so not much could be said.”
“How did she look?” asked Jack.
“Rather paler than usual, but otherwise well. She held me very tightly for a moment, poor child, and then tried to put a restraint on herself.”
“Afraid Uncle Churton would be jealous,” suggested Cherry.
“Do tell us everything, father,” Jack said in a gruff voice, supporting his chin on his hands.
“There is not very much to tell. When I reached the door, the girl meant to send me away as usual. I could see it in her face. So I said, 'I wish to see Miss Browne, if you please. She is at home.’ This was rather a haphazard shot, but my guess proved correct. The girl seemed disconcerted, stared, and said nothing. I repeated, 'Miss Browne is at home, and I wish to see her. If she is engaged, I will wait till she is free.’”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Jack. “Why, father, I didn’t know you were so cute.”
“The girl hesitated, and then went off, leaving me in the doorway. Coming back, she showed me into the drawing-room, and left me there alone. Churton presently appeared, and I can’t say he gave me a warm welcome. He said Aunt Briscoe was very poorly, too poorly to see any one; and she seemed growing so fond of Maimie as hardly to bear her out of her sight; but he dared say Maimie could be spared for five minutes. I said I would stay until she could be spared. Churton said a few words, and then walked away, and by-and-by he and Maimie came in together.”
“And she looked—” Jack asked again.
“Not so bright as usual, but otherwise like herself. She kissed me very affectionately, and seemed delighted to see me, asking after you all, and sending messages of love. We could not of course talk freely, with Churton sitting by all the time. I asked about poor Aunt Briscoe, and Maimie says she finds a great change in her,—great weakness, and no appetite. So that excuse has not been all a pretence.”
“But she would not have refused to see us a year ago when she was ill,” I said.
“No, that is different now. Churton remarked again how fond Aunt Briscoe is of Maimie; and Maimie said, 'Yes, she has given me a welcome.’”
“Go on, please,” Jack said breathlessly.
“I am afraid there is not much more to tell,” my husband said. “We were under a good deal of constraint. Churton presently told Maimie she had better go back to Aunt Briscoe, and Maimie stood up at once. She seems curiously submissive to him.”
“Did she mind going?” I asked.
She clung to me again, and shed a few tears. I went with her to the door, and there she threw herself into my arms, and whispered a good-bye. I had a little chat with Churton after she was gone, and said I hoped she would come and see us soon. He said he could not promise it yet,—he did not like incessant running backwards and forwards between two families. I reminded him that Maimie was like one of ourselves by this time. He frowned, and said she was not that, and added that he hoped by-and-by to be able to repay me for all her expenses while with us.
“Nonsense!” muttered Jack.
“Then we spoke of Maimie herself, and of her prettiness and taking ways. Churton was fluent enough there—only he talked too much as one might talk of the good points of a horse, counting on its marketable value.”
Jack groaned.
“Maimie will not be easily swayed to do what she does not think right,” I said, responding to what I felt was in Jack’s mind.
My husband soon after left the room, and I saw him glance back, as if he had something more that he wished to say to me. I followed in a few seconds, and when we were alone he said—
“Maimie gave me this.”
“What, Robert?”
“A note for you. She slipped it into my pocket, when she was saying good-bye, and whispered, 'Not a word to anybody else.’ So here it is.”
A SMALL three-cornered note lay on my hand, and outside it was written—
“For Aunt Marion. PRIVATE.”
My husband sat down, and I read it, first a few words to myself, then aloud all through to Robert.
“DEAR Aunt MARION,—I am so sure somebodywill come soon from home to see me, that Ishall have a letter ready to send, on thefirst opportunity.”“This is to be a private letter, only foryourself and Uncle Robert; so now I can writefreely.”“My father does not seem to wish that Ishould write by post. I have no stamps ormoney, and he will not give me any. When Iasked him he said it was nonsense, and hedid not want a constant gossip kept upbetween the two houses. But I do not thinkI shall be wrong to send this. I want youso much to know why I do not writeregularly, and then you will not be pained.”“My father is not unkind, only he is sharp,and makes me do exactly what he wishes. He isso unlike what I remember him in America.”“Aunt Briscoe seems fond of him, and yethalf-afraid. But she talks as if Uncle Roberthad offended her dreadfully. I triedyesterday to find out what he had done, and shebecame confused, and said she couldn’t recallparticulars, her memory was so weak.”“I am sure my right place is here just now.She is very good to me, and I may be ableby-and-by to put things more right, only Ihave to set to work very carefully.”“I miss you all so terribly. It can neverbe home, away from you. I long to be back.But you must not be anxious, for I am wellcared for.”“I am writing very small, to get in asmuch as possible. And now I do not know howto stop. I do wonder what Uncle Robert andJack thought of my sudden flight. I don’tsend a message to Jack and Cherry, becauseI don’t think you will show them this.It might be best not to speak of it even.I am so afraid of my father hearing that Ihave written. And yet—I cannot think I amwrong to write.”“Ever your loving child,” “MAIMIE.”
“DEAR Aunt MARION,—I am so sure somebodywill come soon from home to see me, that Ishall have a letter ready to send, on thefirst opportunity.”“This is to be a private letter, only foryourself and Uncle Robert; so now I can writefreely.”“My father does not seem to wish that Ishould write by post. I have no stamps ormoney, and he will not give me any. When Iasked him he said it was nonsense, and hedid not want a constant gossip kept upbetween the two houses. But I do not thinkI shall be wrong to send this. I want youso much to know why I do not writeregularly, and then you will not be pained.”“My father is not unkind, only he is sharp,and makes me do exactly what he wishes. He isso unlike what I remember him in America.”“Aunt Briscoe seems fond of him, and yethalf-afraid. But she talks as if Uncle Roberthad offended her dreadfully. I triedyesterday to find out what he had done, and shebecame confused, and said she couldn’t recallparticulars, her memory was so weak.”“I am sure my right place is here just now.She is very good to me, and I may be ableby-and-by to put things more right, only Ihave to set to work very carefully.”“I miss you all so terribly. It can neverbe home, away from you. I long to be back.But you must not be anxious, for I am wellcared for.”“I am writing very small, to get in asmuch as possible. And now I do not know howto stop. I do wonder what Uncle Robert andJack thought of my sudden flight. I don’tsend a message to Jack and Cherry, becauseI don’t think you will show them this.It might be best not to speak of it even.I am so afraid of my father hearing that Ihave written. And yet—I cannot think I amwrong to write.”“Ever your loving child,” “MAIMIE.”
“DEAR Aunt MARION,—I am so sure somebodywill come soon from home to see me, that Ishall have a letter ready to send, on thefirst opportunity.”“This is to be a private letter, only foryourself and Uncle Robert; so now I can writefreely.”“My father does not seem to wish that Ishould write by post. I have no stamps ormoney, and he will not give me any. When Iasked him he said it was nonsense, and hedid not want a constant gossip kept upbetween the two houses. But I do not thinkI shall be wrong to send this. I want youso much to know why I do not writeregularly, and then you will not be pained.”“My father is not unkind, only he is sharp,and makes me do exactly what he wishes. He isso unlike what I remember him in America.”“Aunt Briscoe seems fond of him, and yethalf-afraid. But she talks as if Uncle Roberthad offended her dreadfully. I triedyesterday to find out what he had done, and shebecame confused, and said she couldn’t recallparticulars, her memory was so weak.”“I am sure my right place is here just now.She is very good to me, and I may be ableby-and-by to put things more right, only Ihave to set to work very carefully.”“I miss you all so terribly. It can neverbe home, away from you. I long to be back.But you must not be anxious, for I am wellcared for.”“I am writing very small, to get in asmuch as possible. And now I do not know howto stop. I do wonder what Uncle Robert andJack thought of my sudden flight. I don’tsend a message to Jack and Cherry, becauseI don’t think you will show them this.It might be best not to speak of it even.I am so afraid of my father hearing that Ihave written. And yet—I cannot think I amwrong to write.”“Ever your loving child,” “MAIMIE.”
“DEAR Aunt MARION,—I am so sure somebody
will come soon from home to see me, that I
shall have a letter ready to send, on the
first opportunity.”
“This is to be a private letter, only for
yourself and Uncle Robert; so now I can write
freely.”
“My father does not seem to wish that I
should write by post. I have no stamps or
money, and he will not give me any. When I
asked him he said it was nonsense, and he
did not want a constant gossip kept up
between the two houses. But I do not think
I shall be wrong to send this. I want you
so much to know why I do not write
regularly, and then you will not be pained.”
“My father is not unkind, only he is sharp,
and makes me do exactly what he wishes. He is
so unlike what I remember him in America.”
“Aunt Briscoe seems fond of him, and yet
half-afraid. But she talks as if Uncle Robert
had offended her dreadfully. I tried
yesterday to find out what he had done, and she
became confused, and said she couldn’t recall
particulars, her memory was so weak.”
“I am sure my right place is here just now.
She is very good to me, and I may be able
by-and-by to put things more right, only I
have to set to work very carefully.”
“I miss you all so terribly. It can never
be home, away from you. I long to be back.
But you must not be anxious, for I am well
cared for.”
“I am writing very small, to get in as
much as possible. And now I do not know how
to stop. I do wonder what Uncle Robert and
Jack thought of my sudden flight. I don’t
send a message to Jack and Cherry, because
I don’t think you will show them this.
It might be best not to speak of it even.
I am so afraid of my father hearing that I
have written. And yet—I cannot think I am
wrong to write.”
“Ever your loving child,” “MAIMIE.”
And that was all. A tear seemed to have fallen and blotted the name. We did as Maimie wished, and said nothing about my letter.
A month passed from that day, and Maimie had not once been to see us, had not once written by post. Robert and I understood; and Cherry’s confidence in Maimie was never shaken. But Jack looked often very unhappy. I began to think at last that I would tell him of the letter I had had.
Then suddenly, one day, when we were all sitting at early dinner on Saturday, my husband and Jack being at home, there came a telegram.
Robert opened it with nervous fingers, and I saw Jack’s ruddy face turn pale. I think we all fancied at the moment that it meant ill news of our Maimie.
“From Churton,” Robert said; and he read aloud: “'Aunt B. died this morning; paralytic stroke last night; unconscious to the last.’”
A silence fell upon us. No one seemed to know exactly what to say. My husband looked really grieved; but it was impossible that much of real affection should be felt by most of us for the poor old lady; and Jack’s face told of relief. It had been a very different matter when her dear tender-hearted old husband had died. That was a loss to us indeed.
“I must go this afternoon,” Robert said presently.
“Shall I come with you, Robert?” I asked. The question came from a sudden impulse, arising, I am afraid, more out of a wish to see Maimie than aught else.
“I don’t know why you should not.”
He went out of the room troubled and sad. Jack said, “I am only astonished that Uncle Churton took the trouble to send a telegram at all.”
“Perhaps Maimie made him,” said Cherry.
“I doubt if Maimie has much power to make him do anything. More likely he has a motive of his own.” Then turning to me, Jack asked very softly, “Mother, who will have it all?”
“No one knows,” I said.
“Not Uncle Churton, I hope.”
“I hope not. But we cannot tell yet.”
A little later Robert and I started together. I do not think we two had ever been to “The Gables” in company, since that time when we went to consult Aunt Briscoe about Maimie’s sudden arrival from America. And now Maimie and her stepfather were both at “The Gables;” and poor Aunt Briscoe—was not there.
I fancied Churton would be amazed to see us come in; but he was not. He seemed cordial and cheerful. “He feels sure of his ground, and thinks all is settled now,” flashed across my mind. I do not know whether Robert had the same thought. But it did seem strange to see Churton so cheerful, in that house of death, with its closed blinds. Robert looked depressed; and I felt sad and subdued; while Churton spoke in his loud voice, never attempting to lower it, and invited us into the drawing-room, and gave himself the airs of hospitable owner of the house.
“Churton expects to have all this,” I said in a low voice to my husband, when he went away to call Maimie.
“Evidently,” Robert answered. “He probably has good grounds for his expectation.”
Then Maimie entered quietly, followed by her stepfather. She looked very pale, and her eyes were red with tear-shedding. “Aunt Briscoe was so good to me,” she said softly, as if in excuse for herself; and she sat holding my hand, with her fair head down on my shoulder. “Just like mother and daughter!” Churton said, in a sneering manner.
However, he sent for tea, and talked persistently, allowing us no chance of quiet conversation with Maimie. Aunt Briscoe had long been poorly and broken, he said; but the final stroke of paralysis had come suddenly,—unexpectedly, in fact. The doctor had been summoned, but nothing could be done. She had never been conscious again, and had sunk in the early morning. He would have telegraphed the night before, had it not been so late, knowing the interest we all felt in the old lady.
Then he went on to name the day of the funeral. He asked Robert and Jack to be present, and me too, if I liked. “Not that it matters much,” he said. “But no doubt there will be small remembrances to some of us, whatever she may have done with the bulk of her possessions. She was quite free, as we all know. The poor old body wasn’t over-liberal with her gifts while she was alive; but most people are willing to be generous in their wills. Well, we shall see, after the funeral. No use to go into the question.”
I disliked extremely the manner in which he spoke; and I saw Maimie’s eyes fixed on him gravely.
Churton evidently did not intend that we should see Maimie alone that afternoon. I longed for at least five minutes’ chat in private; but I could not see how to bring it about, and Maimie made no effort. She was only sad and submissive. Yet now and then I noticed a satisfied expression in her face—an expression as of one who had set herself to do something, and had done it.
Robert asked Churton as to his future plans; and Churton said carelessly—
“Really, I don’t know yet. Either settle down in England, or go back to America. It isn’t easy to come to a decision; but I shall have to decide soon. Maimie doesn’t seem to care for the thought of America. I believe there’s some young fellow in England she has a hankering after. But I tell her it’s no earthly use, unless he has money. She ought to do well for herself, with that face and air. I’m not going to have her throw herself away on some penniless city clerk.”
A hit at my husband this, and I knew it. But Robert heard quietly; and Maimie’s downcast face did not even blush.
The interview over, Robert and I went home, and had much to tell Cherry and Jack.
“Mother,” Jack said wistfully that evening, “do you think there is any more hope for me now—with Maimie?”
I had never told him anything which I knew Maimie herself would not wish to have repeated. But after some thought, I said, “I think there may be a little more hope for you, Jack, perhaps, so far as Maimie herself is concerned—”
“O mother!” he said, in rapture.
“But other difficulties are increased,” I said.
“What difficulties?”
“Uncle Churton—”
“Oh, that is nothing. That doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, if only Maimie herself could be willing—”
“We must have patience,” I said. But I too felt hopeful, even while seeing difficulties ahead more clearly than Jack did.
On the day appointed for the funeral; Robert and I went—not Jack. He could not well get leave of absence that day from his work; and on the whole we were not sorry. It was better that Churton should not yet know his desires with regard to Maimie; and Jack would hardly have failed to betray himself.
The funeral took place in strict accordance with directions in the old lady’s will, at a distant cemetery. I had hoped to be able to keep Maimie from attending it, and to remain behind with her for a private interview. But Churton was bent upon Maimie’s presence in the cemetery, and she made no effort to resist his wish, or to farther mine. Did she really not care for being with me, much as I was longing to have her for awhile to myself? I grew perplexed, and even a little jealous. However, as Maimie went, I went also. And the quiet solemn service seemed to help and calm me,—only Churton’s loud voice grated on my ears.
On our return we expected the reading of the will to take place immediately. But Churton insisted on luncheon first. He overruled everybody’s wishes, and had things his own way.
The lawyer was an old friend of Mrs. Briscoe, and we had known him many years—a silent grey-haired man. When at length luncheon was over, and we were all gathered together in the drawing-room, he put on his spectacles, made one or two introductory remarks, and then slowly read the will aloud.
THE first part of the will was dated a few years back,—within a year of Uncle Briscoe’s death. “The Gables,” and all furniture in the house, and all money in the funds, bringing in nearly seven hundred pounds yearly, were left to my husband, with only a few small legacies to friends taken out.
Then came a codicil, dated just three months before Mrs. Briscoe’s death, undoing the whole of this, and leaving to Churton house, furniture, money,—all, with the exception of the few legacies I have mentioned, and five hundred pounds to Robert.
Churton showed extreme satisfaction. He tried hard to seem astonished, and to accept his good fortune as if it were unexpected, but without much success. My husband sat with bent head, making no remark. I do not doubt that it was to him, as to me, a moment of bitter disappointment.
Maimie raised her eyes, and looked earnestly at us all round, not seemingly either grieved or gratified, but with a certain calm content. I wondered at her, and my heart beat with something like anger. Was she glad to step in and rob us of our inheritance? For unless Churton should marry again, Maimie might reasonably expect that one day all this would pass to her.
It is strange how quickly thoughts can flash through the mind. I suppose I felt all that I have just written, and more besides, in the space of two or three seconds. The lawyer’s pause could hardly have lasted longer.
“Stay,” he said, lifting one hand, as Churton seemed about to rise. “I have not done.”
He read aloud yet another codicil, dated less than three weeks back. This codicil entirely reversed all that was in the other codicil, and reverted to the first arrangement, everything being again left to my husband, with the exception of a few small legacies, and also with the exception of one thousand pounds to Jack.
I heard Maimie utter a little “Oh!” of pleasure at that. Evidently she had not known it beforehand.
Robert’s drooped head was lifted, while Churton sprang to his feet. I never saw a face so changed in a few seconds. He seemed in a fury.
“What! what! what!” he shouted. “What’s that? It’s a trick,—a shame. I don’t believe it.”
“Look for yourself, Mr. Hazel,” the lawyer said composedly, keeping the will in his own hand, but pointing to the last paragraph.
“I don’t believe it,” repeated Churton, pacing to and fro. “Why, the old lady herself told me—” There he broke off, as if he had not meant to say so much, and condescended to examine the codicil. “What does it mean? Three weeks ago! And I to be told nothing!”
“That was hardly necessary,” the lawyer said, with considerable dryness. “Legatees are not always informed as to the exact amount which they may expect to receive at a testator’s death.”
“It’s a rascally shame,” cried Churton, almost beside himself. Then he turned sharply upon Maimie. “Three weeks ago! Since you came? Girl, this is your doing?”
She stood up and faced him, pale, but otherwise unmoved.
“This is your doing!” he shouted. “You hear?”
“I hear you, father,” she replied.
“And you allow that it is true? If you did, I’ll—”
Robert stepped forward, and took his stand by Maimie’s side.
“Yes, I don’t doubt,—done by you two! I was a fool ever to trust the girl, I might have guessed—”
“Father, you might have guessed that you could not trust me to help forward a wrong.”
“No violence here, Churton,” my husband said, for his gestures spoke of uncontrollable wrath.
“I’ll do as I like with my own girl,” he said roughly.
Maimie looked fearlessly at him. “Not your own,” she said.
“I’ve done as much for you as if you were! But I’m not going to bandy words with you, girl. The old lady was free to will her property as she chose; and if she chose to will it to me, nobody had a right to meddle. Is this your doing?”
“Miss Browne, you are not bound to answer questions put in such a manner as this,” the lawyer said.
“She’s bound to answer me, if I choose to insist,” Churton said, in his harshest manner. “Speak, girl! is this your doing?”
The lawyer spoke again. “Mrs. Briscoe was, as you have just stated, free to leave her property where she pleased. Some cause induced a passing change of plan: but about a month ago she reverted to her former intentions, and wrote to tell me so. It was not her wish that you should be made acquainted with the change.”
“When did she sign the codicil?” demanded Churton.
“Nearly three weeks ago,—as you may see by the date. I came here, but did not see you or Miss Browne.”
“My father and I were out for the day,” observed Maimie.
“Yes, no doubt; you took care of that,” said Churton.
“Aunt Briscoe settled it herself. I did not know it was to be on that day until we came back.”
“You have not answered my question yet. Is this, or is it not, your doing?”
She hesitated a moment, and then spoke out distinctly. “I found Aunt Briscoe offended with Uncle Robert for no reason. She seemed to think he had treated her wrongly; and he had not. I was able to set that right. How could I do less?”
A strong expression broke from Churton’s lips. “You did enough, any way,” he said fiercely. “Enough for yourself and for me too! I’ll have nothing more to do with you! Do you hear? You may find a home where you will. I’ll have no more to say to you. And if ever you’re in trouble, you needn’t come to me! I don’t want to see your face again. Do you hear?”
He pushed her roughly from him, and strode out of the room. But for Robert’s quick support she would have lost her balance, and fallen backwards. He threw an arm round her protectingly, and she burst into tears.
“Poor child!” the old lawyer said kindly. “She is well out of his hands.”
“Maimie, dear child, never mind; you are ours now,” Robert whispered. “He gives you up to us.”
But I think the strain of the last few weeks must have been severe. Maimie seemed so shaken and hysterical, that I made her go upstairs and lie down on her bed. She held my hand tightly, whispering,—“Don’t go! Don’t leave me!”
I SAT down beside the bed, and drew Maimie within my arms, letting her soft cheek rest against mine.
“Oh, that is nice,” she murmured.
“Maimie, we owe a great deal to you,” I said.
“Don’t say so, please. I could not let the wrong go on. But poor father—it does seem sad.”
“To any one that loves him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t—much,—not real love, I mean. Only for his own sake I am sorry. But I don’t think he will want me again.”
“He has given you up,” I said.
“Yes, I hope so. And, after all, I could do nothing for him, even if we were together. He will not hear a word of what is right,—and I think he would soon try to make me do wrong. He frightens me sometimes, with things he says. Oh, he has gone downhill terribly since mother’s death. It would be dreadful to live with him always. But I am glad I came here.”
“It has been a happy thing for us.”
“Yes, I wanted that. I soon found out what poor father was after! How he could!”
“Did he tell you, Maimie?”
“Father tell me! O no. Aunt Briscoe took a fancy to me the first day, and she very soon began letting out things when we were alone. She said my father would be angry if he knew, and I must not repeat a word. I found she had a fancy that Uncle Robert had been rude and neglectful to her; so the first thing I had to do was to explain that away. And then she told me she had altered her will,—by my father’s advice. I had to be careful in what I said, but it very soon seemed to dawn upon her that she had been deceived, and that she was wronging Uncle Robert. She wrote herself to Mr. Wilson about the change in the will, and he was so quick,—much quicker than lawyers are generally. I do think he was very glad for Uncle Robert.”
“Did it never occur to you,” I asked, “that if all had gone to your stepfather, it might have been yours some day?”
“Aunt Marion!—what sort of a creature do you think me?” she cried.
“At all events, it will be Jack’s,” I said.
She blushed vividly, but said, “I am glad of the legacy to Jack. Aunt Briscoe did not tell me of that. When will Jack come here?”
“I think you will come back to us first,” I said, “until we can all be here together. I suppose it will be some little time before we can enter into possession.”
Then Maimie told me more about Aunt Briscoe; how, under failing strength, she had seemed to dread the future, and had craved comfort, not knowing where to turn.
“She spoke of her husband as such a good man, Aunt Marion, and said she was afraid she had never cared much for the things he loved best. And I do think I was a little help to her. At first she was shy of seeing a clergyman. I could not get her to do it, till a few days before her death. But she let me read and talk and sing hymns to her. 'Just as I am,’ was her great favourite; and at last she almost knew it by heart. I do think there was a real change in her. And she seemed so anxious to do rightly about her money.”
“I wonder she never sent for my husband.”
“She did not dare, Aunt Marion. I think she was too weak and ill to face my father’s anger. She told me again and again to give you her love 'by-and-by.’ And I think she had a feeling that it would not be long.”
“I wonder your father never happened to hear about the lawyer’s visit.”
“There was no one to tell him. He and I were out for the day, and Aunt Briscoe sent Maria into the city, on an errand. I suppose Maria might have told,—father seems to have some sort of hold on her. You know he made Aunt Briscoe send away her good old housemaid, and get this new one instead. But she would not part with cook, even to please him,—and cook does not like father at all. She would be sure to tell him nothing.”
We did not talk much more of Churton, for the subject seemed to sadden Maimie. Nor did we see him again. Later on we all had tea together; but Churton was absent. Inquiries being made, we found that he had gone away an hour earlier, taking two large boxes with him. No one knew where he was gone; and he had left no message to anybody.
“So he gives you quite over to us, Maimie,” Robert said. “You are our child now.”
It was a good while before we actually went to live at “The Gables.” Law-business had to be settled before we might take formal possession. Also many repairs were needed in our new home. Moreover, our old home was on our hands for another two years; and a tenant had to be found for it.
But by the time summer was in full swing, we made the move.
I found then that the old home was dear to my heart; but the new promised soon to be yet dearer. Robert loved “every stick and stone” about the place, as the saying is. The garden and the little conservatory were a great delight to Maimie and me; but the change in my husband’s look was a greater delight still. He seemed already ten years younger, and was losing his burdened air.
One day, soon after we were beginning to feel really settled, Maimie came softly into the drawing-room, carrying a rosebud in her hand, and blushing herself like a rose. She had on her garden-hat, and I thought how wonderfully pretty she was growing, with her black soft eyes and her wavy flaxen hair, and the bright bloom in her cheeks.
“Aunt Marion, I’ve been gardening,” she said.
“Yes, dear,” I answered; and I knew directly that something was coming.
“Jack is there,” she said. “He has come home earlier.”
“Isn’t he well?”
“O yes; quite. It isn’t that. But he says he could not wait any longer. It came over him all at once that he must speak. And he asked leave to come away early for once—on business. Fancy calling that business!”
“What was the business?” I asked, smiling.
“As if you didn’t know!” she whispered, stooping to kiss me.
“He knew Cherry was away this afternoon, and he felt sure he would find me alone in the garden.”
“Which he did. Well, Maimie, what is your answer?”
“I haven’t given him any. I told him he might ask you.”
She was starting upright, to run away, but I caught her fast.
“You must tell me what to say.”
“Anything you like.”
“I should like you to belong to my Jack.”
“Then I will,” she said.
“Only because I wish it, Maimie?”
She shook her head, smiled, and stooped for another kiss.
“If I don’t marry Jack I shall never marry anybody,” she said. “Please tell him what you like, mother!”
And she ran away out of one door, as Jack came in at another. He looked very hopeful, yet half puzzled. I had the joy of laying his doubts to rest, and of telling him that at last Maimie was his own.
“My own! my very own!” he said once or twice to himself, with such a look of happiness in his manly face. Then he stooped to kiss me, as Maimie had done. “Mother, pray that she may never be my idol, and yet that I may love her better every day,” he said softly.
And I think that prayer has been answered.
Three years passed before Maimie became Jack’s wife. By that time he was getting on well enough to render the step prudent. A little house was taken near us, and furnished chiefly with the contents of our old home. Neither Jack nor Maimie would consent to spend any of the thousand pounds,—Aunt Briscoe’s legacy.
By that time Cress had been home again for several months. He had grown brown and healthy, and had shaken off his fancy for Maimie; so much so that he made no objection whatever to being Jack’s “best man.”
Seeing a little more of the world had done Cress good in many ways. Cherry and I found him now a pleasant companion in the house, instead of a trouble. He was far less “self-absorbed” than of old.
On the very eve of Maimie’s wedding, she had a letter from her stepfather. He had taken up farming in South Africa, and professed to be doing well. He wrote in his old affectionate style, and enclosed a present of five pounds, saying he hoped some day to come home and see her again.
Did he think he would get Maimie once more into his power? The thought occurred to my mind, but I put it from me. There was no need to trouble ourselves. Maimie, as Mrs. Jack Hazel, was safe from her stepfather. She wrote soon to thank him for his “wedding-gift,” and to tell him of her marriage. Since then we have heard no more of Churton.
THE END.