“It may come yet,” said Aunt Briscoe.
“And meantime, what are we to do?” I asked. “Who is to support the girl?”
“That is for you to settle,” Aunt Briscoe said coolly. “The matter is in your own hands, and of course you are quite at liberty to say you won’t support her. Nobody can force you. Maimie, do you call her? What could make anybody give a child such a name?”
“'Mary’ is her real name. I don’t see that the matter is in our hands at all,” I said feverishly. “If we didn’t keep the girl, who would?”
“The Parish,” Aunt Briscoe said quite composedly. And that meant, in plain terms, that she herself was not going to help.
“The workhouse!” my husband said, in a very low voice.
And I knew he was thinking, as was I, of the pretty delicate face and shining flaxen hair. The workhouse for Maimie!
“That is impossible!” I said, and my voice sounded fretful even to myself. “But we certainly cannot afford to keep Maimie.”
“Nobody will expect you to undertake what you cannot possibly afford,” Aunt Briscoe said.
Robert was silent, and his eyes were bent on the ground.
“And if we don’t?” I said.
“There’s the Parish,” Aunt Briscoe answered again, in just the same tone as before.
“I see you think that we ought to keep her,” I said.
Aunt Briscoe looked full at me. “I’ll tell you what I do think, niece Marion,” she said, “and that is, that you want to throw off the burden of the question on anybody except yourself. And I don’t mean to be that 'anybody.’”
“Then you will not even give us a word of advice,” I said. “I might just as well not have come.”
“Just as well, if that was all you came for,” Aunt Briscoe said calmly. “Next time you had better send Cherry.”
Then she stood up and beckoned my husband towards her neat little conservatory. Gardening had been quite a passion with her husband, and I really think the softest part of Aunt Briscoe’s nature had to do with her love for flowers. “I’ve got some new plants here,” she said, “worth your looking at, Robert.”
I went too, though I was in no mood to can for new plants just then. I could not help thinking how much Aunt Briscoe spent on her own comforts and pleasures, and how easily she could have spared a five pound note to help us. But after all, one can’t judge for another.
“The Gables” was a very cosy house, and it had been built before land in that neighbourhood grew valuable. So it was not tall and narrow, like most small houses near London. On the ground floor there was a nice-sized drawing-room and a neat dining-room, and the kitchen and scullery were behind on the same level. And overhead were three good bedrooms, besides a dressing-room; and over those were some really comfortable garret-rooms. Then there was a long garden at the back, well stocked with vegetables and fruit trees; and in front a little green lawn, with a round bed in the centre and a narrow bed all round, and a footpath from the gate to the front door. Robert knew and loved every inch of the place. I could not feel the same love, not having known it in my young days. Still it was all very familiar and home-like to me. Till the death of Uncle Briscoe we had always looked on “The Gables” as a sort of family home.
I knew how nice and cosy everything was about the house; and how well Aunt Briscoe lived; and how little her two servants had to do. It did seem as if she might have helped us, or have offered to take in Maimie for a time. But she would not. That could be seen plainly enough. We had gained nothing by our visit,—not even a little advice,—not even a grain of pity.
And yet, to think of sending that young girl to the workhouse! I was as ready as Robert, if not more ready, to cry out, Impossible!
BUT however impossible it might seem to me, as well as to Robert, that we should send Maimie into the workhouse, yet making up my mind that she had to be kept, and making up my mind to accept the new burden cheerfully, were two entirely different things. I saw that the addition to our family was for the moment unavoidable. I did not see myself bound to take the burden with a smile. There are two ways of going through life: either smiling or sighing; either singing or groaning; either rejoicing or complaining. There are burdens which must be borne, and we cannot escape them. God chooses our way for us, and that way has to be walked. It is of no use for us to try to choose our own path; or, as it has been beautifully expressed, to attempt to row our boat any way contrary to the rowing of our Father’s Hand. Still, though the choice of a direction is not ours, we must choose whether we will go in the direction He wills with a smile, or whether we will complain and resist and only give in because we cannot help it.
I am afraid the last was the case with me. I would give in, because I felt that the thing had to be; but I would not give in happily.
The journey home from Aunt Briscoe’s was heavy and sad to me, therefore to Robert. A cloud upon one heart cannot but react upon other hearts.
We said little by the way. Indeed, a long omnibus-drive, in company with strangers, does not generally make one talk much of the things which interest one most. But I do not think I should have talked, even if we had been alone. I felt so hopelessly dull and depressed. I saw Robert steal a glance at me now and then; and the shadow on his face deepened.
The spring days were growing long. Still we had remained so late at “The Gables,” that it was almost dark when we reached home.
Cherry came out to meet us, with our fourth boy, Fred. The two youngest, Bob and Teddy, were in bed. I knew in a moment that the others had not returned: for Jack never failed to give me a welcome, if I had been absent and he were at home.
It was not, however, till I asked Cherry that she said, “No, mother, they are not back yet. I suppose they have forgotten how time was going.”
This was an unusual matter. The boys knew well that their father and I liked them to be back early from such excursions. A trip into the country would have been a different matter; but London on Saturday evening was not so desirable. And they had Maimie with them!
“I suppose they have been drawn on farther than they thought,” Cherry added, as if in apology. “It is all so new to Maimie, you know, mother; and Jack was quite excited at taking her.”
“They would not find so very much to see at Westminster,” I said.
“The Abbey, mother, at any rate,—and they talked of a long ramble on the Embankment, and taking Maimie across two or three bridges. Oh, they will find plenty to show to a stranger; and Maimie says she can walk any distance. They must have mistaken the time. But they are sure to be in directly.”
“Directly” is an elastic word sometimes, and it seemed so in this instance. We brought out our work, to finish some little mending needful for the morrow. Fred was sent to bed, and my husband opened a book, but speedily went to sleep over it. After some time I said softly to Cherry—
“Aunt Briscoe will give us no help with Maimie.”
“Mother, did you think she would?” Cherry spoke in a tone of surprise.
“I should have been very glad,” I said.
“I really don’t see how we are to meet the additional expense.”
“Don’t you think it will come all right, mother?” Cherry asked.
“It may,” I said.
“I think it will,” she murmured.
After a pause, she added,—“Perhaps Uncle Churton will soon write.”
“And if he does not?” I asked.
“If not—won’t there be something else instead, mother? Isn’t there sure to be?”
I did so want a little comfort of some sort. I found myself catching at Cherry’s words, as if for help. And I put down my work, and said, lifting my eyes to her dear face,—“What do you mean, Cherry?”
Cherry’s work went down also. She drew her chair nearer, and took both my hands, kissing them lovingly.
“Mother, you know it all,” she said in a low voice. “You know all a great deal better than I do. It is only—only—that the Bible says we are not to take too much thought, because 'all these things’ will be added to us. Doesn’t that mean that we should be wrong to fret and worry?”
“Perhaps so,” I said. “Yet we must look forward, and try to arrange things.”
“O yes, of course,” Cherry said, smiling. “And of course it wouldn’t be right for us to spend money carelessly on anything we like. I think I should be quite wrong to have a new jacket just now, because there really is no extra money to spare. But that is different from being anxious and fretted.”
“I am both, this evening,” I said.
“Yes; about Maimie,” said Cherry. “But, mother dear,—if God has given us Maimie to take care of for a little while, won’t He give us food for her too? The Bible says 'all these things,’ mother,—and 'shall be added.’ That seems strong enough. And there is that other verse too about 'all your need.’ I am sure food is one need.”
I could not help stroking Cherry’s soft smooth hair. She had always been such a good loving child to me. But generally we were reserved, and said little on such subjects. It is often so with a mother and daughter,—I do not quite know why. This new pressure, however, seemed to have broken down the barrier for once.
I repeated the words,—“'All your need,’” only half thinking what I was saying.
“It is in Philippians, mother,” Cherry said, flushing, and looking almost pretty. “You know it, don’t you? 'My God shall supply all your need, according to His riches in glory, by Christ Jesus.’”
“I have always supposed that to mean spiritual needs,” I said.
“But, mother,” Cherry said wistfully,—“But, mother dear,—of course we have those needs too,—but I don’t see that spiritual needs are our only needs. Because we do really need food and dress as well. And the words are—'all your need.’”
The simple common-sense of my child’s words struck home to me.
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said slowly. “I believe I have always found it easier to pray for spiritual things, than for everyday earthly things. One can ask for faith and love and patience, and really expect an answer. But when it is a question of food and money—”
“Mother,” Cherry whispered, “don’t you think that is perhaps just the reason why the people have not always quick answers about food and everyday needs?”
“What reason?” I asked, not at once catching her thought.
“Why,—because they don’t expect.”
“It may be,” I said. “But it won’t do for us to choose for ourselves in such things after all, Cherry.”
“O no,” and Cherry smiled. “If you were to choose now, perhaps you wouldn’t have Maimie to live with us at all. But that isn’t our choosing. So I am quite sure we may ask to be helped,—and don’t you think we may really expect an answer? Because of that 'all your need’?”
“Some would say we do not need so many things as we fancy we do,” I said.
“I dare say we don’t,” Cherry replied thoughtfully.
“Perhaps St. Paul meant that when he said,—,’Having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.’”
“You have a good memory for texts,” I said. And then we both went back to our work and were silent.
But I thought over Cherry’s words a good deal.
For it seems a wonderful thing, with that promise lying in the Bible, how few make use of it. “My God shall supply all your need.” Why, of course that means bodily as well as spiritual need. Of course it does. One kind of need, leaving out other kinds, does not mean “all.”
And there the promise lies; and even God’s own children do not use it. Just as one might have a signed cheque lying in one’s desk, and might never take it to the Bank to be cashed. What good would the cheque be to one, in such a case?
Such promises as this are plainly spoken to those who serve God. True, God gives rain both to the just and unjust; He is kind even to the unthankful and to the evil. Still, while inviting all men to come and learn to be His servants, He does not promise “whatsoever” they ask, or the supply of “all their need,” until they do come.
But of those who have come, of those who do really seek to be “faithful servants” of Christ, how very few understand the power and beauty of this promise, “My God shall supply all your need.”
I know it never struck me before, as it did that evening, with the help of my child’s simple trust. Something else came into my mind, as I thought, and that was—
“Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.”
Was not Maimie a care? Then why not cast her upon the strong Arm of my God, Who was so willing to bear?
I resolved that I would try, and would not be so burdened.
HALF-PAST ten o’clock struck, and our absent ones at last came home.
Jack looked uneasy and out of spirits. I could see that at a glance. Cress was in high glee, laughing and talking with Maimie. Owen always took things quietly, and I noticed no particular change in his face. Maimie herself had a brilliant colour, and seemed excited.
“Mother, I’m awfully sorry we are so late,” Jack said, when they first entered. “May we have some supper?”
“Have you had nothing to eat?” I asked.
“Only some buns at five o’clock. We meant to be back earlier. I dare say Cherry will get out a loaf of bread for us. It’s too late for tea, of course.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, when Cherry looked at me.
Nobody offered any further explanation. I went down with them into the basement-room, leaving my husband still asleep. Bread and butter were there vigorously attacked by the three boys, Maimie taking little, as was her wont. She had evidently enjoyed herself thoroughly, and kept breaking out into little notes of admiration; while Jack made few remarks, but gave me some anxious glances furtively.
I gathered that they had taken Maimie to the Abbey, and had shown her a considerable part of Westminster. Then Maimie had treated them all to a trip on the river as far as Blackfriars, and a view of St. Paul’s had followed. Naturally they were late, after crowding so much into one afternoon. But why should they have attempted it all?
Robert made no complaint, and I too resolved to keep silence that evening. So when the boys had eaten enough, and we had had family prayers, all went to bed.
I thought Jack would certainly stay behind and offer some kind of fuller explanation. But he did not; and I was troubled.
Next day came, and Jack still said nothing; neither did Cress bring up the subject. It was Owen, not one of the elder boys, who said to me in the course of the afternoon—
“Mother, we really didn’t mean to be so long coming home yesterday.”
“It was not right,” I said. “And Jack has not told me how it happened.”
“No,” Owen replied. “The fact is, mother, he is afraid Maimie will be blamed. He wanted me to promise not to say a word; but I would not promise, and I don’t like to see you worried.”
“Then it was Maimie’s doing?” I said.
“Maimie doesn’t understand,” the boy said. “Jack wanted to come back in good time from Westminster, and he said you and father liked it best, and Maimie laughed. She says she has always done as she wished; and she seemed to think it so funny for a big fellow like Jack to have to obey. And then Cress laughed too, and he said he should please himself, and he didn’t mean to hurry. And Maimie proposed to go on the river, and to pay for all of us. We didn’t think at first of going to St. Paul’s; but the first boat that passed went that way, and when Maimie found we were near the Cathedral nothing could stop her. Jack was vexed about it all; but if he had come away, Maimie and Cress would have stayed behind.”
“Perhaps if Jack had been decided, they would have given in,” I said.
“I don’t think so, mother. Maimie was so bent on seeing St. Paul’s; and I’m sure Jack wouldn’t have liked to leave Maimie with Cress. He told me I had better stay too—I mean, he seemed to think we had better all keep together.”
“Maimie was not right,” I said.
“I don’t believe she knows any better, mother. She seems to have had a queer bringing-up. And she has always lived in a small sort of place, and of course she knows nothing at all about London.”
“Hardly a sufficient excuse,” I said.
“But, mother,—Jack was so afraid you would blame her. That was why he would not speak. He said he would much rather you should think it was all his fault. She’s a jolly girl, as full of fun as can be; and yet she can be grave too. She knows lots of history, and seemed as if she could never be tired of the monuments in the Abbey. It was as good as a history book to hear her talk. And once, when the organ was being played, she knelt down alone in a corner, away from us all, listening and looking—I can’t tell you how she looked. Jack said it was like something—a saint, I think. Cress laughed, but he told Maimie what Jack had said.”
“A saint means one who is holy,” I said. “If Maimie is going to lead my boys into wilful ways, and to teach them disobedience, she will prove herself to be anything but a saint, Owen.”
“Oh, but she won’t, mother,” he said affectionately. “Don’t you be afraid. She won’t do that, so you mustn’t be worried. Jack only didn’t like to get her blamed; and Cress always does like to be independent, you know.”
Yes; this was one of Cress’ failings, and it always had been. Jack’s stronger and more robust nature could more readily stoop to submission than Cress’ less manly nature. That is often to be seen. A little mind will fight against authority, where a great mind will at once obey. Cress’ failing in this respect was no new thing. But if Maimie were to back him up in his independence, how would matters be then?
“Jack will be angry with me for telling,” Owen remarked. And I promised that I would, if possible, avoid drawing in his name.
Partly for Owen’s sake, I resolved not to speak to Maimie immediately. Apart from Owen, there were other advantages in a slight delay. It is often a good plan to wait, when one has to find fault, until one has had time for weighing the matter, and deciding how much of blame is really due. Words spoken hastily on the moment’s impulse are apt to be needlessly strong, and so to cause needless irritation. Also, I was getting to know Maimie better each day.
She seemed to be quietly fitting into our home. I began to feel it quite natural to see her about.
Maimie was very winning in her ways. When she came down in the morning, with her rippling waves of hair, and her soft smiling eyes, kissing Cherry so lovingly, and throwing her arms round Robert, and greeting all the boys with such pleasant looks, I always was aware of a particular charm about her. She never threw her arms round me, or lifted her black eyes to mine with their sweetest expression. We just exchanged a kiss, and that was all. I admired the child, and did my best to feel rightly towards her, but somehow she held aloof. I think there was a feeling of resentment still at the words I had spoken about her stepfather.
It was quite touching, as days went on, to see her eagerness about the postman. Every hour when he might pass,—not seldom in a London street,—she was almost sure to be watching at the window. A flush would come into her cheeks the moment she saw or heard him in the distance, deepening each instant as he drew nearer, till he went by our door. Then her colour would fade quite away, and for half-an-hour or more she would look pale and spiritless.
But she said nothing, and she did not seem to wish for sympathy. Since her first arrival, she had not once asked whether or no we had decided to keep her. That appeared to be all taken for granted; unless indeed she spoke more freely to Cherry. This anxious watching for the postman, however, showed to me something of her real feelings.
The middle of the week passed, and still I had not spoken to her about the Saturday excursion. Another Saturday was drawing near, and I overheard a mention of “Hampton Court” among the boys. It might or might not mean anything; but I resolved to delay no longer. And late on Thursday afternoon an opportunity came.
Maimie and I were alone together, not a very common occurrence. She was watching at the window, in one of her periodical fits of anxiety. I knew by her rosy flush that the postman had approached. Suddenly she grew crimson. Steps ran up our flight, and the sharp double rap sounded. Maimie flew into the hall like a wild creature; but her return was slow enough.
“It is nothing,—only a stupid London letter,” she said brokenly, and I saw that her eyes were overflowing.
“Did you expect a letter from your stepfather, Maimie?” I found myself saying.
She straightened herself, and dashed aside her tears. “Yes, of course,” she answered. “He said he would write.”
I did not reply quickly. Maimie sat down on a chair facing me.
“Aunt Marion,” she said,—“I think father must be ill.”
I had it on my lips to say,—“No need to suppose that.” But looking up at her, a feeling of pity came over me, and I only replied,—“He may be.”
“And that would account for his not writing,” she said.
“If he is ill, it may go on a long time. Some illnesses last for weeks. He would want me with him, but he might be too ill to send for me. Poor father!”
I did not quite know what to say to this.
“So I have been thinking,” she resumed,—“thinking what to do—if he does not write soon, I mean.”
“I think you will have to stay here for the present,” I said.
“But I am only in the way here,” Maimie said abruptly, and tears sprang again to her eyes. “Uncle and Cherry and the boys are very kind; but I am not wanted.”
The leaving out of my name was marked.
“I hope we are all kind to you,” I said. “But that is hardly the question, Maimie. Where else can you go, if you do not stay with us? We are willing to keep you; and you must be willing to stay.”
“I am not willing,” the girl said; and there was another red flush. “I hate to be a burden. Aunt Marion, isn’t there anything I could do? I thought there were clerkships for girls sometimes. Couldn’t Uncle Robert hear of one for me?”
I tried to explain to her how much would be required; how little she was fitted for such work, not to speak of being too young; and how great was the competition for work in London.
“But I can do needlework,” she said. “Wouldn’t somebody pay me for that?”
I could hardly help smiling. “You can darn for ten minutes at a time,” I said.
“Oh—darning—I can’t bear darning. I could work hard, if it was to get my living.”
Her eyes flashed as she spoke. I said, after a pause—“If you really want to be useful, you might help Cherry sometimes.”
“What, in darning?” she asked.
“That, and other things. One more in the house makes more work to be done. Why should you not take your share?”
“And that will make me a little less of a burden! Yes, of course I will,” she said. “I do hate mending and washing up, but, of course I’ll do them. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I am going to tell you one other thing,” I said; and I know I spoke quietly, as I should not have done some days before. “You must not laugh at my boys, Maimie, for their loving obedience to their mother. You must not lead them into wrong.”
She opened her eyes widely. “Lead them into wrong!” she repeated. “Laugh at the boys!”
“Last Saturday afternoon,” I said. “I do not know all that passed; but something of it has reached me. You must not do that again.”
“Last Saturday! Why, that is ever so long ago,” she said. Then, with a sudden smile—“But it was so comical—that great tall Jack—”
“There is nothing comical in a young man’s submission to his parents’ wishes. It is grand rather than funny. Obedience is a nobler thing, Maimie, than doing what one likes.”
“I have always done what I liked,” she said.
“Yes, I daresay you have. That is self-pleasing. Anybody can be self-willed, easily enough. But some amount of self-control is needed for obedience.”
“Only there couldn’t possibly be any harm in the boys’ staying away an hour or two longer,” she objected.
“Perhaps not,” I said. “But you could not possibly judge. You know nothing of London. Still, the question does not hinge there. What I dread for my boys is, that you should teach them to think it manly to please themselves, and unmanly to love their home and to follow home-rules.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t do that.” Then she laughed again, and said, “It sounds so funny to talk of my teaching a great fellow like Jack.”
“Great fellows are often more teachable than little fellows,” I said. “You can’t help teaching by influence, Maimie, one way or the other. All of us are always teaching and always learning. What I ask is that, while you are here, you should use your influence in a right way, not to make the boys do wrong.”
“Very well,” Maimie said. She spoke shortly, and I supposed her to be offended. But the next instant there was a sob, and she ran out of the room. Smiles and tears seemed very near together in Maimie Browne.
MAIMIE was as good as her word, which was more than I had expected. She had seemed to me too flighty to settle down steadily to work of any kind, But I think this was mistaken judgment. I do not think Maimie’s was really a flighty nature. There was an under-current of right feeling and right principle; and there was strong force of will.
From the hour of our talk together, she began to take upon herself a full share of household work. Hitherto she had been treated as a guest, every one giving up the best to her, and waiting upon her. Now she began to wait upon everybody—to Cherry’s surprise, and to Jack’s disgust.
“Mother, has anybody been saying anything to Maimie?” he asked. “She’s washing up the tea-things.”
“Why not, Jack?” I asked.
“Why? Those pretty little hands!”
“Hands are none the worse for being useful. Cherry has nice little hands too, but you don’t mind seeing them employed.”
“Cherry! No,” Jack said, as if Cherry were quite another sort of mortal. “But Maimie!”
“If Maimie lives with us it is right that she should help in the work of the house,” I said. “I can’t have my good unselfish Cherry worn to a skeleton with waiting on idle people.”
“Mother! As if Maimie was ever idle! Cherry a skeleton, indeed!”
Jack’s tone had never so nearly approached anger in speaking to me; never in all his life. I hardly knew how to bear it, and tears were in my eyes. But I managed to laugh; for certainly Cherry was far enough as yet from any likeness to a skeleton. And Jack did not notice my tears, as he would usually have done.
“Then you did speak to Maimie, mother,” he said, staring out of the window.
“Yes,” I replied. “Maimie was in distress at not hearing from her stepfather, and wanted to know how she could work to support herself. I told her that was impossible at present, and I suggested that she should sometimes help Cherry. It seemed to console her a little.”
“Oh well, that isn’t so bad,” Jack said, heaving a sigh. “I was afraid somebody had been at her, scolding or lecturing. Well, I only hope we never shall hear from Uncle Churton at all, and then Maimie will belong to us.”
“That is hardly so kind a wish as I should have expected from you.”
“Why, mother?”
“Because Maimie loves her stepfather. And because your father naturally would like to hear from his only brother. And because we have not the means to support Maimie.”
“But we have no choice;” and his eyes sparkled. “We can’t turn her out, when she has nowhere to go. We really have no choice at all.”
“Not just at present,” I said. “As Aunt Briscoe said, there is only one alternative.”
“What’s that, mother?”
“The workhouse!” and I spoke the word as quietly as Aunt Briscoe herself had spoken it.
Jack turned on his heel with an explosive “Pshaw!”
“I am quoting Aunt Briscoe,” I said. “Jack, you don t often speak to me in such a tone.”
Jack was down on a chair by my side in a moment, kissing and begging pardon. Yet hardly had the apology passed his lips, before he was breaking out again into an indignant, “Workhouse for Maimie, indeed! The idea!”
“People with nothing to live upon cannot pick and choose.”
“Much Aunt Briscoe would like it for herself,” Jack said scornfully. “Well, as long as I have two hands to work with, Maimie shall never come to that. Mother, I wish you liked her better.”
I looked up at him, and said, “I like Maimie as much as can be expected in so short a time, Jack. Perhaps I am not quite so much infatuated as—some people.”
“Fascinated, not infatuated,” said Jack quickly. He rose and moved away, but came back from the door to say, “You’ll learn in time. You will love her in time, mother.” Then he was gone, and I began to realise, as mothers must, that my boy was growing out of boyhood.
It was so evidently a pleasure to Maimie to find herself of use in the house, that Jack ceased to resist, though he was always rushing forward to seize something from her hands, or to save her exertion. I wished he would take as much pains for Cherry; but though really a very kind brother, he did not at all object to seeing her hard at work.
Cress’ admiration for Maimie took a different form. Here, as in everything, he was disposed to put self first. He liked Maimie, therefore he liked her to wait upon him. He was accustomed to have much done for him, and he saw no reason for making Maimie an exception in the doing.
In respect of various household matters, such as laying of tables, washing of china, dusting of rooms, and cookery, Maimie proved herself an adept. She was very quick, and beautifully neat.
“I never liked housework, but mother always made me,” she said in explanation, when surprise was shown.
The real puli lay more in connection with needlework. Maimie seemed to have an unconquerable aversion to her needle. Delicate and pretty work would have been more to her taste; but in our house, patching, turning, and darning were the order of the day.
Maimie fought hard against her dislike, and forced herself to sit over it hour after hour, with burning cheeks, struggling to be “useful.” I did not at all realise how great the strain was. Cherry saw it long before I did, probably because she cared more for Maimie. But I think Maimie withheld her from speaking.
The change to our confined London home was very great to Maimie Browne, after her free country life, with fresh country air and abundant exercise. Cherry and I had seldom time to go out, except on little shopping excursions, or for a short walk with the younger children. And Maimie was too young and pretty, and too strange to London, for much wandering about alone.
She had some long half-holiday rambles with the boys, when weather permitted, and these helped to keep her in health for a time. But when she took so eagerly to helping us with work, we found it difficult to persuade her to go out as much as even we thought needful.
Had I fully understood the manner of Maimie’s life hitherto, the way in which she had spent her days among trees and flowers, the absolute freedom and ease which she had known from infancy, I think I should have judged much more to be necessary.
I did notice, as weeks went on, that she was drooping; but it seemed to me that her stepfather’s continued silence was enough to account for this. She had been pale when she first came, a pretty soft healthy paleness, with coral lips in contrast. But now a tinge of unhealthy yellow was creeping into the paleness, and the coral red was dying into a faint pink, and the black eyes were losing their sparkle.
I thought Maimie was depressed, and I offered few remarks. It is not always wise to make young girls nervous about themselves, by talking too much of their health. And I fancied Maimie was one who would give in readily, as soon as needful. But I did not then know the strength of her will.
“Mother, I don’t think Maimie is well,” Jack said sometimes. Somehow his solicitude made me less inclined to act, not more inclined. Was I jealous of Jack’s admiration for Maimie—my Jack, who had hitherto been only mine? How often the anxious looks which had been so often bent upon me, were now bent upon Maimie! Well, was it not natural? Jack was reaching an age when boys will begin to have their little fancies. He was as good a son to me as ever, only there was now somebody else too. Just the merest fancy of course on his part—he such a boy still, and she a mere child. Yet I know it was pain to me. I could have given Maimie more love, if Jack had given her less.
“Mother, I am sure Maimie is not well,” Cherry said one day. “She was awake ever so long in the night, crying with pain in her side. I gave her something for it, but I don’t think she is better yet.”
“Don’t let her do too much this morning, and I will see by-and-by how she is,” I said.
I was very busy that morning, and very tired myself. Somehow it went out of my head about Maimie’s side-ache, and I blame myself, for certainly I should not have forgotten if Cherry or Jack or any other of my children had been the sufferer.
Cherry did her best to follow my directions, but Maimie was not to be easily managed. She made beds, dusted, washed, much as usual, and insisted that Cherry should not say another word to me. Seeing her so bright and active no doubt helped me to forget.
We had a heavy basketful of clothes needing repairs that afternoon. Cherry proposed that Maimie should have a little walk before joining us, but so decisive a “No” was the response, that she said no more. This recalled to me Cherry’s words in the morning, and I asked at once, “By-the-bye, how is your side, Maimie?” She flushed up, said hastily, “It’s nothing to signify,” and began talking to Cherry.
“Cress as usual,” Cherry remarked, displaying a jacket out at the elbows. “Isn’t it wonderful how Cress’ things last only half as long as anybody else’s?”
“He does not make up his mind that they must last,” I said. “Give me that jacket, Cherry. You have enough to do with the stockings.”
“It’s a good thing I have a particular gift for darning,” Cherry remarked, with a smile. “Just see, what a foot! That is Cress’ too. O mother, wouldn’t it be splendid to have five pounds’ worth of new clothes all at once?”
“No use to begin wishing for impossibilities.”
“Fancy how one would spend the five pounds,” pursued Cherry, talking cheerily, as she liked to do over her work. “Three new pairs of socks for each of the boys, and for father. And three pairs of stockings for each of us. Mother, it is wonderful how much of the five pounds would run straight away on socks and stockings alone. And so many shoes and boots are wanted. Five pounds would hardly clothe all the feet of the family, so as to give us a few weeks’ holiday in that line from mending.”
“Better not begin to wish,” I said again. “It only means discontent.”
Cherry looked up at this, and smiled. “I was only amusing myself,” she said. “I don’t think I am avaricious.”
She did not look so, with her sunny face. Maimie made no response to all this, but sat silently, leaning back, and working slowly, with downcast eyes.
I do not know how long we all three remained thus: between one and two hours, perhaps.
It was a half-holiday, and Maimie had resolutely refused to take a ramble with the elder boys. They went out somewhat vexed at her refusal; but Jack returned early, as I expected him to do.
He came in upon us, as we sat together, a busy trio, and before I could look up, I heard his voice in a tone of consternation—
“Maimie! what’s the matter?”
MAIMIE’S work had dropped to the ground, and she was leaning forward, with eyes shut, one hand pressed to her side, the other holding a chair for support.
“Maimie!” Jack cried again; “are you ill? Mother, look!” he said passionately.
We were all three by her side in a moment. She made a kind of warding-off movement, and muttered, “Don’t move me!”
“You had better lie down on the sofa,” I said. “I think you have been working too hard.”
She shook her head, and then rested it against Cherry.
“Come, my dear,” I said, touching her.
After a moment’s hesitation she stood up slowly; but then there was a gasp, almost a cry, and she dropped back, white as ashes.
“O don’t make me move,—please, please don’t,—it is so cruel.”
“Mother, you must not,” Jack cried, in a trembling voice, as if he too thought me cruel. I could have borne anything but this. I felt my heart grow suddenly hard.
“Of course Maimie can sit here, if she prefers to do so,” I said coldly. “I thought she would be better on the sofa.”
Maimie hid her face on Cherry’s shoulder, and sobbed. I stood waiting, uncertain whether to go back to my work, and deterred by a fear of seeming unkind in Jack’s eyes.
“The wisest plan would really be to go upstairs and lie on your bed,” I said at length.
“If you only would leave me in peace!” moaned the girl.
She yielded presently, however, so far as again to stand up, allowing us to help her. It was evidently no mere case of fancy, for her lips were quite colourless, and the sharp catches in her breath, though partly hysterical, told also of severe pain. I suggested her bedroom again, and proposed a hot fomentation, but she shuddered, and almost petulantly declined; so Cherry ran for pillows, and tried to place her comfortably on the sofa. I heard two or three times an impatient—“That won’t do—” and “Oh, don’t,” followed by a low-toned,—“I’m sorry I was cross, Cherry.”
Cherry answered this with a kiss.
“Better, Maimie?” she asked.
“No. It’s dreadfully bad, Cherry.”
I came near again, and asked,—“Where is the pain?”
A motion of her hand to her side was the only reply.
“Have you had it before to-day?”
“Not so badly. Please leave me alone.”
“A hot fomentation would be the best thing for you,” I said again.
“O no; I only want to be left alone. Please don’t speak.”
So I went to my work, and Cherry retired to hers, both with a sigh. Jack took up his station watchfully near the sofa, like a faithful dog.
I did not know what to think. My own children, with the exception of Cress, had known remarkably good health. And even for Cress’ ailments, home-care and tending had commonly been sufficient. We had mercifully known almost nothing of acute illnesses, through my married life. Amid many troubles, that trouble had been spared us. If Maimie now were going to be ill, or were going to prove only delicate in a general way, it would be a serious matter.
It is curious how heavily any new anxiety seems to weigh upon one. I have been often struck with this. Old cares go on year after year, and in a measure we grow accustomed to the bearing of them. I suppose the back becomes fitted to the burden. But a new trouble does not fit at all. It frets and fidgets, and we cannot forget it for a moment.
After all, neither old nor new worries aught so to weigh upon those who truly serve God. For are we not told,—“Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee”? If our burden is truly cast off upon God, then we certainly have not to bear it ourselves as well. And if we may indeed walk with no burden at all to bear, then how light and free our steps might be!
But I am quite sure I did not cast off my burden that day upon Him. If I had done so, it would not have pressed so hardly upon me.
I am writing about everyday anxieties,—just such as hundreds of people are constantly going through. I think it is in these commonplace anxieties that people most signally fail. If any very great sorrow comes, such as the loss of husband or child, then in our helplessness we rush to our God for help, and He bears us on. But the lesser cares and fidgety worries we try to bear ourselves,—and of course that means that we bear them badly.
Just so I failed that day. Things looked dark and sad, as I sat over my mending. I began to wonder if anybody ever had such troubles as I had. I could not see how in the world we were to meet the expenses of the coming half-year. It would have been difficult enough in any case. And now here was Maimie, not only thrust upon us for support, but also threatened with illness, perhaps severe illness. What should we do? What could we do?
From where I sat, I could see the pale face with its pretty outline, and the brows drawn into a fixed frown of pain. Maimie’s flaxen hair was tossed back in disorder, and the white lips stirred with a quick panting motion. I could see the slender hands clasped together, as if in a struggle for self-command.
As I worked, and looked, and thought, there came into my mind words of gentle rebuke—“O thou of little faith, wherefore dost thou doubt?”
Yet still I went on doubting. For mingled with the pain of anxiety was another pain—more like pain of jealousy. Why should my Jack sit there, watching Maimie with such fixed grieved eyes? Of course we were all sorry for Maimie—quite sorry enough. I could have pitied her tenderly—but for Jack. I did not like my Jack to wear that look to anybody except myself.
And I was wrong. I knew it even then; I know it better now. What! was I to demand a monopoly of my boy’s heart? He loved me none the less because he gave love also to this forlorn child cast into our midst. What business had I with miserable jealousy?
JACK stole presently to my side and whispered in distress,—“Mother, she’s no better. Oughtn’t we to have a doctor?”
“We will try home remedies first,” I said, “as soon as Maimie will go upstairs. I don’t suppose it is anything serious.” Yet my heart misgave me as I spoke.
“Mother, you wouldn’t take it so quietly if it was one of us!” whispered Jack.
And I knew this was true, but I said—
“You would not refuse to do what I wish.”
Jack moved away, with a vexed and unhappy look. There was half-an-hour of silence, almost unbroken, except by an occasional low moan from Maimie. She checked herself at once when betrayed into it; but each time I heard a little unconscious echo from Jack, and he wore a face of utter misery. Cherry looked often from one to another of us, seemingly afraid to speak.
On Robert’s entrance a change came about. Generally he was back on Saturday to early dinner, but a City engagement had kept him this day till between four and five o’clock. Cherry ran out to meet him in the passage, and there were evidently a few words of explanation. When he appeared, a look of relief crossed Maimie’s face.
“Why, my poor little woman!” he said tenderly. “What is the reason of this?”
“I dare say it will go off soon,” murmured Maimie. “I shouldn’t mind so much, only it gives trouble.”
“Nobody minds the trouble, my dear,” Robert said, and Jack echoed the words with smothered eagerness, “But, Maimie, you must go upstairs.”
So Cherry must have told him my wish.
She fixed her eyes on his face. “Do you want me to go, Uncle?”
“Yes,” he said.
Maimie was on her feet before he could guess what she meant to do; and then she staggered and fell against him, with a little cry.
“Gently, my dear,—that was too quick,” Robert said. “You must move slowly, and let me help you.”
Jack’s arm, as well as my husband’s, was needed for the going upstairs. I could no longer keep down the fear that something must be really wrong. Maimie grew whiter at each step, and her short breaths of pain were almost sobs.
Cherry and I followed till the room was reached, and then the task of undressing followed. Maimie seemed to dread every movement; yet, on the whole, she bore up well, and did not complain. Only, when she was at last in bed, I heard a distressed moan of, “O I don’t know how to bear it! I don’t know how to bear it!”
“So bad still, Maimie?” asked Cherry.
“Not the pain only! It’s that too. But I wish—I wish—if only Aunt Marion would go!”
This was quickly hushed by Cherry, and I thought it wisest not to seem to have overheard.
Beyond things absolutely necessary in the household, little could be done that evening, except to tend Maimie. I could not flatter myself that such remedies as I was able to devise took much effect; yet we persevered in them, hoping for improvement on the morrow.
Night passed quietly to Robert and me, for Cherry would not disturb us. She had little or no sleep herself, for Maimie tossed and moaned all through the darkness. Towards morning, Cherry went down to the kitchen, where she lighted the fire and made a hot poultice. But still the pain continued; and when, at six o’clock, I stole into the room, I found Maimie suffering acutely, and Cherry sitting dressed on the bed supporting her.
“You ought to have called me, Cherry,” I said, when I gathered what the night had been. “I should have come in, but I was afraid of waking Maimie, if she were asleep.”
“Maimie would not let me, mother,” Cherry said gently.
I did not like Maimie’s look, or the burning hand which lay on the counterpane. She just lifted her eyes to mine, and then closed them again. But a little later, when I had sent Cherry downstairs to lay the breakfast-table, and was myself putting the bedroom straight, she said unexpectedly—
“Aunt Marion, I had better go to a hospital.”
I came to her side and asked, “Why?”
“I think I am going to be ill; and I shall only be a trouble. I can’t bear to be a trouble.”
I hardly knew what to say. Suppose it were really the right plan! After a pause, I remarked, “This may prove to be nothing.”
“O no—it is inflammation,” she said faintly. “I had it once before,—years ago,—and I was very very ill. If I am in a hospital, I shall be out of the way.”
“That is no reason,” I said gravely. “It is only a question whether we can do all that you would need.”
“It isn’t that I want to go,—of course. I do love Cherry,—and Uncle,—and—and—Jack is so good to me. But I had better go,—please—I don’t belong to you really,—and there’s nobody else—”
She broke into weeping, and sobbed hysterically, struggling with acute pain which wrung moans from her. “I don’t know how to bear it! I don’t know how to bear it!” passed her lips repeatedly, and soon that cry passed into another yet sadder,—“Oh, mother, mother! O if only mother were here!”
Coldness and jealousy went to the winds that hour. None was at hand to comfort the poor child: so the task of comforting fell naturally on me. Without any distinct intentions, I somehow found myself kneeling down beside the bed, drawing Maimie into my arms. There was first a startled backward movement on her part, and then she held me with a convulsive clutch. “O Aunt Marion, if only you could love me!” broke from her wildly, passionately.
“I do love you, Maimie,” I said; and I spoke truly, though till that minute it hardly had been truth.
“Do you? I thought you didn’t! I thought I was only in the way! It has been so terrible, so dreary.”
“Why, Maimie, you have always seemed bright enough.”
“Have I? It was all outside. I’ve been thinking all night that if I was to die it would put everything straight. Nobody wants me. Was I very wrong? I’m not afraid to die,—and I should be welcome up there. Was it wrong? I know Jesus died for me,—so I needn’t be afraid. There doesn’t seem any use in my living. Even father doesn’t care to have me.”
I don’t know how she bore to say or how I bore to hear all this. The words seemed to break from her like the bursting loose of a great wave, long pent up, finding at last an outlet.
“Don’t let go!” she moaned, when I would have stirred from an awkward position. “O hold me tight,—tighter! It feels like mother’s arms again. O hold me tight!”
Then as tears, which I could not keep back, fell upon her face, she looked up, startled.
“Aunt Marion, don’t cry! Have I said anything unkind?”
“No, darling,” I said, hardly able to speak.
“Do call me 'darling,’—oh, do. It sounds lovely. It does comfort me so,” she said. “But I had better go to a hospital,—truly I had better. I don’t mind now. I shan’t mind anything, if you can love me.”
“We won’t think about the hospital yet,” I said, rallying my self-command, and speaking in a cheerful voice. “Plenty of time for that, Maimie. I want you now to lie quite still, and see if the pain does not get any better. Is it so very bad still?”
“Yes. But the other pain is better,” she said, with trembling lips. “Aunt Marion, kiss me,—once—once more.”
And the look of peace on her sweet face, when I stood up, was startling to me. What had I been about all those past weeks, with this poor lonely child longing for my love and sympathy, which yet I had studiously withheld?
Then I went downstairs, and told my husband and Cherry and Jack of Maimie’s proposal to go to a hospital. Robert heard silently. Jack burst into an angry exclamation.
“What do you think, mother?” Cherry asked.
“If Maimie goes, I’ll go too,” Jack said fiercely. “I’ll sit outside on the steps till she is well.”
“Jack, don’t be childish,” my husband said gravely. “The question is—would Maimie be best off here or there?”
“Here, of course,” Jack said.
“I would rather nurse her here,” murmured Cherry. “Mother, what do you think?”
I looked at Robert and said,—“I think Maimie might be actually better off there,—for food and medicine and so on. But she is a sensitive child,—and I think she would feel going among strangers. And Robert,—it does seem as if she had been given over to us, to be taken care of and I don’t like to send her away.”
Robert’s face lighted up with relief, and Cherry broke into a smile of happiness. But Jack threw his arms round me, and—big fellow that he was—burst into a flood of tears. I had my boy’s heart back again,—mine as much as ever it had been.
I HARDLY know how we got through the next month.
A doctor had to be called in, and Maimie’s attack proved to be, as she had expected, one of severe inflammation. She was very very ill, though by her own account not so ill as the former time.
A more patient and gentle invalid could hardly have been found. From the moment when she was acknowledged to be really ill, excitement and wilfulness were at an end. She did as she was told, submitted to painful remedies without a murmur, took the most unpleasant medicines smilingly, and smothered the faintest approach to complaint. “Maimie, I do wish you would indulge in a grumble now and then,” Cherry said one day; and she answered, “How can I, when you are all so sweet to me?”
Through two or three days, at the worst, we did not think Maimie would ever be up and about again. We were all very sad and grieved. Even Cress shed a few tears, though much ashamed of doing so. Poor Jack’s misery was touching to see. He spent hours on the stairs, outside the sick-room, watching for news. Still, in trouble he turned to his mother for comfort; and I was content.
Then the worst was past; and Maimie came slowly back to everyday life. As she improved, many little delicacies in the way of food were needed, and somehow we procured them, I hardly know how. Day by day we were just able to get on. The fog which lay ahead cleared away for us step by step, never more than one step in advance. Often I felt afraid as to the next step; yet, when it had to be taken it could be taken.
My children all put their shoulders to the wheel, and did their best to help. The younger boys had never been so quiet, so thoughtful, so ready in every way to assist Cherry and me with household work. Cress had never been so careful of his clothes, had never wanted so few things mended or bought. What little pocket-money they had was spent in delicacies for Maimie’s capricious appetite.
Kind help came too, in our time of need, from other quarters. The doctor, though a Parish doctor only, with a large family, himself an elderly and poor man, brought many a little gift to his winning patient.
Jack’s employers, hearing of our trouble, not only passed over various blunders committed by him under distress of mind, but sent eggs and fowls fresh from the country, and bottles of wine from their own cellars. And one day, when anxieties pressed with especial heaviness, the post brought an unexpected letter from Aunt Briscoe, enclosing a five pound note.
“I don’t say that you are not very foolish to undertake the girl,” she wrote. “Mary Browne is nothing to you, nor you to her. She may be very agreeable. Jack seems half insane about her—” Jack had been to see Aunt Briscoe, and no doubt he had enlarged on Maimie’s charms in his artless fashion;—“but I do not see what that has to do with the matter. However, I enclose a gift of five pounds towards your extra expenses just now. Of course you will not expect it to be repeated.”
No, that we certainly did not. But how thankful we were, and how I wondered over my own want of trust, my “little faith.”
Five pounds did not make things easy for us; and four times five pounds would not have done so either. But the gift came just in time to tide us over a serious difficulty. Help that is sent does so often come just in time,—not more, but also not less, than “just in time.”
So weeks went by, and at last the day came when Maimie might walk downstairs. Then in a little while she slipped quietly out of her invalidism, and joined our family life again; only we had to be very careful lest she should do too much.
I saw a great change in Maimie. I don’t know whether others did. Not only in her having grown thin and colourless, and having lost much of the flaxen hair. Her smile was as sweet as ever, sweeter than ever, I think; but she seemed more silent and gentle, and often more grave.
It was singular how she clung to me. Her love for Robert and Cherry was not lessened; but I think her love for me was greatest. When tired, she used to sit on the ground beside me, with her head on my knee. If I advised the sofa, she would say, “Please let me be here. I like this so much. It feels as if I had mother again.”
Maimie was very anxious to resume her share of work and mending; but at present Cherry and I set our faces against her doing so. She was still weak and easily worn out; and the change of air which might have set her up lay quite out of our reach.
“Aunt Marion,” she said thoughtfully one day, “I do think it so strange that my father never writes.”
“He may be ill,” I said to her, as she had once said to me.
“Would he be ill so long as this?”
“I don’t know. It does not seem likely, Maimie, but there is no knowing. We may hear yet, some day.”
“I am afraid he doesn’t care for me so much as I thought he did,” she murmured. “And yet he really did seem kind, he really seemed fond of me. Aunt Marion, I was so angry when I first came, because you thought he did not mean to write. But after all you were right.”
“We may hope the best still,” I said.
“Ah, but I should not have been so angry. It was very very wrong. I am trying hard not to be so easily vexed at things.”
“I think you are different since your illness, Maimie.”
“Things are different,” she answered. “I’m not so dreadfully alone now; and I know you do all love me. It is such a feeling, to know that nobody cares for one. When I first came to London, I had nobody in the world except father, and I couldn’t bear to think that perhaps he did not really love to have me with him. I’m not sure, Aunt Marion, that I didn’t really believe the same as you thought, deep down in my heart; but I wouldn’t let myself think it. I couldn’t! it was too dreadful, when I had nobody else.”
“Had you no friends in America?” I asked.
“Oh—friends—I don’t know. People were kind, but I don’t think I cared for anybody very particularly,—not as I care for you.”
“Perhaps, after all, we shall find some day that your father has had a good reason for his silence,” I observed. “Churton always did things in an odd way.”
“I would much rather think him, odd than cold,” said Maimie, sighing. “Yes, perhaps, some day,—we shall know all about it by-and-by, I suppose. But that may be a long way off. And I do so want to be useful now.”
“I can’t have you working again yet.”
“I needn’t begin with mending,—though I do really mean to make myself like that. But I could wash up, and make the beds.”
“Not just yet,” I repeated,—“more than you do already.”
“And that is so little,” she said.
I think it was the evening of the same day, that Jack came in with a grave face. After tea, he took a seat beside me, and fidgeted in silence with my scissors for a quarter of an hour or more. Then he said suddenly—
“Mother, I’ve had a warning to-day.”
“What, more blunders, Jack?”
“Yes. And the very next, I’ll have to give up. They are very sorry, but they say it really can’t go on.”
“O Jack!” I said sorrowfully.
“I wish I could help myself, mother! But what on earth am I to do? Sometimes I think I’ll run away and enlist.”
“And break my heart,” I said, in a low voice.
Jack buried his face in his hands, and breathed hard. I did not know what to say next. We had gone over and over the old ground so often and so uselessly. Jack was always sorry, always angry with himself and distressed for my sake; and he always meant to do better,—only somehow he never did do better.
“I don’t know what in the world is to become of me,” he groaned at length. “Only I don’t mean to be a burden on you and father,—that’s certain.”
I think I said nothing, for I could not trust my voice. Tears were fighting to make their way, and I could not bear him to see me cry. I knew it would make him still more unhappy. But this did indeed seem to be the one drop too much in our cup.
“How long a time will they give you?” Cherry asked mournfully.
“Just till my next blunder. That’s all. To-morrow, most likely.”
“They won’t dismiss you at an hour’s notice. Impossible, Jack!”
“O no. But that will settle the question.”
He had lifted his head for a moment, but now it was down in his hands again.
Only Cherry and I were in the room beside Jack,—except Maimie, who was, as we believed, sleeping on the sofa.
But she had not been asleep; or our voices had aroused her. For at this moment she sat up, and looked at us, one after another. Then she rose, and came softly to Jack’s side, and laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Jack, may I ask a question?” she said. “I want to see if I can’t help you.”