Maris Read online

  The color flew into Maris's cheeks, and she held her head proudly, "with the Mayberry tilt" as mischievous young Gwyneth would have said.

  "My wedding dress is all ready, thank you. It was the first thing I planned." She said it very quietly but firmly. Her future mother-in-law eyed her thoughtfully.

  "Well, you are forehanded," said Mrs. Thorpe pleasantly. "Most girls leave that until near the end. But, my dear, I'm wondering if you quite appreciate what a formal gown would be required for this wedding. Of course, whatever you pick out would be charming, but it could easily be used for some less formal affair. You see, I've found just the right garment for you, at a very exclusive little shop where I frequently deal, and I'm quite sure you'll like it. It is perfect for the occasion, and one that you would always be proud to remember having worn on the greatest occasion of your life. Of course, it was a bit expensive, and so I secured a special price on it. If you feel it is still too high, I shall be glad to pay the extra expense, for I do feel that for the honor of the family you should have it."

  Maris's color had drained away at this, and her eyes had become a deeper blue as she lifted her chin a bit haughtily. She could imagine the steel in her father's eyes if he should hear of this offer to help pay for his daughter's wedding dress. She could imagine the hurt in her mother's eyes at the interference.

  "I think you will be pleased with my dress," she said a bit haughtily.

  "Perhaps," said the older woman, "but nevertheless, I would like you to see this dress of which I speak. I'm sure after you once see it, nothing else will seem the proper thing."

  "Then I wouldn't want to see it," laughed Maris with a tinge of asperity beneath the laughter.

  "Oh, now, my dear, you certainly aren't as narrow as that! But I must insist that you see it. I really feel very strongly about the matter, and of course I'll be glad to finance it."

  Maris drew the Mayberry dignity about her.

  "My father would not permit that of course," she said quietly.

  "Well, of course, if he feels that way. But I didn't like to make suggestions without offering to pay for them. Then you'll see it tomorrow, won't you, Maris? I told the woman to hold it, that you would likely be in sometime in the morning. Of course, if you have to delay till afternoon, just phone her and say when you will be there. Here's the address, and the phone number."

  She handed Maris the card.

  Maris took it reluctantly, looked at it for a minute, struggled with her annoyance, and lifted a face on which she tried to hold a winning smile.

  "I could look at it," she said pleasantly, "but it really wouldn't be worthwhile for the woman to take the time to show it to me, because I simply couldn't do anything about it. I have a wedding dress, and I like it very much."

  "But you will see it because I ask you to," said the older woman with an underlying tone of authority in her voice. "I have spoken to Tilford about it, and he feels that you should see it. I ask it as a special favor."

  More family arrivals just then prevented further talk and left Maris bending the little troublesome card back and forth in her fingers. She finally slipped the card into her small evening bag, and the thought of it was submerged in the dull monotony of the evening. But now it rose with all the imperiousness of the Thorpe family and seemed as binding upon her as if she had signed a contract to go and look at that dress. Tilford was in on it, too. Really, that wasn't fair! The bridegroom was not supposed to know anything about the bridal gown till he saw her in it for the first time as she came up the aisle. But perhaps Tilford's mother didn't realize that.

  Well, what should she do? Just forget it? Could she get by? She had a feeling that perhaps it might be hard to explain to Tilford why she had ignored his mother's request. And over and above all she had a little shivery feeling that this matter of marriage was assuming a grave and sinister appearance. Those words--formal affair--that Mrs. Thorpe had used last night had made it seem that it wasn't just a matter between herself and Tilford, but as if she were about to marry the whole Thorpe clan and come under their authority. Was that so?

  And what should she do? She didn't want to make a useless fuss about what might after all prove to be a trifling matter. Perhaps she had better go and look at the dress and say she had seen it but she still felt that her own would be more suitable. And yet, even to compromise so much seemed almost disloyal to the mother who had worked so hard and wrought such love into every stitch of that exquisite fairy dress.

  She had been so sure until last night that all the Thorpes would admire and praise it. And now she had a feeling that they would look on it with scorn. And perhaps if she went to look at this other sophisticated dress, it might make her dissatisfied with her own lovely dress. Oh, how she hated the thought of all this interference.

  Well, what should she do? Was it thinkable that she should tell her mother and that they should go down and look at that dress? Was it at all possible that the lovely organdy was not formal and stately enough for this wedding that the Thorpes seemed to think was their wedding and not hers?

  Suddenly she sprang to her feet, opened the door, and listened a minute. She could hear a distant sound of dishes in the kitchen. A pang of conscience shot through her. Mother was washing dishes, and she ought to be downstairs helping. By this time, of course, Gwyneth should have gone to school. And Mother had dismissed the maid yesterday! She had pretended it was because Sally was inefficient, but Maris knew in her heart that her mother was trying to save money, just now when this wedding was going to be such an expense! And here she was lingering upstairs considering whether she wouldn't add more expense by buying another wedding dress at the most exclusive shop in the city! What utter nonsense! What ingratitude! Of course her lovely organdy was the right thing. It was as beautiful as a dream, and nobody, not even Mrs. Thorpe, could say it wasn't. And anyway, Tilford would have to take her as she was. If he didn't like her in her own wedding dress, he needn't marry her!

  With her head held high, she tiptoed across the hall to lift the white cheesecloth covering and reassure herself by another glimpse of the dress that had seemed so wonderful to her just last night.

  And there hung the dress in all its white cloudiness. Nothing could have been lovelier! Formal? Yes, its very simplicity gave it an air of distinction! There was something about it that even formality might not question.

  Then suddenly she saw that the lace, which had been hanging from the sleeve last night, hung no longer. It was all delicately in place with tiny invisible stitches, exquisite and perfect. It was done!

  Then Mother must have sat up until all hours last night finishing it! For she knew by having watched the rest of the lace put on what a time it took, and what infinite care her mother used. It was all wrought together so perfectly that the sewing was only a part of the artistry.

  Sudden tears sprang to her eyes! Dear Mother!

  Then it had been a crack of light beneath the sewing room door that she had thought she saw last night down the hall as she came softly up the stairs not to disturb anybody! When she looked again, it was gone and she had thought it imagination. But Mother must have heard her and turned the light off quickly so that she wouldn't know what she was doing and then turned it on again when she was sure her child was asleep. Dear Mother! Precious wedding dress! Not for any new formal relatives would she hurt her mother now, by even suggesting that they look at that other formal attire that had been urged upon her!

  But there would be Tilford. If he should speak of it, how would she answer? Well, perhaps she could run down sometime this morning and just look at the dress and then tell him she liked her own better.

  Suddenly, as she stood at the head of the stairs trying to think it out, there came a frightened cry. Gwyneth from the distant kitchen suddenly flung the door open.

  "Maris! Maris! Come quick! Something's happened to Mother!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  As Maris flew down the stairs on panic-stricken feet, the telephone set up a wild ringing, and
on top of that the doorbell shrilled out through the house, but Maris sped on to the kitchen where her mother would be. And there on the floor beside the sink, with the dish towel still in her grasp and her soft brown hair that was graying at the temples fallen down around her shoulders, lay her mother. Her face was still and white, and Maris's frightened eyes could see no sign of breathing as she stooped down with a low cry. "Oh, Mother! Mother! Mother! You dear little mother!"

  "Yes, very dear to you!" said the sarcastic voice of her brother Merrick as he came angrily into the room. "What's the matter here?"

  He caught a glimpse of his mother prone upon the floor and his young face hardened.

  "If anything's the matter with Mother, you've yourself to thank for it. That doggone fool wedding is at the bottom of it all. I've seen it killing her day by day! Get out of the way and let me lift her up! Get some water, can't you? Send for the doctor! Somebody answer that telephone and tell 'em to shut up and get out!"

  He gathered up his mother in his strong young arms. Such a frail little limp white mother with the dish towel still in her hand!

  He strode toward the couch in the dining room.

  "Gwyn, can't you stop that telephone! It's fierce! Maris, can't you bring some water? Isn't there any aromatic ammonia around?"

  Merrick was standing over his mother, frantically peering down at her white, silent face.

  A young man who had come in with Merrick and had up to this time stood in the doorway silently, answered the appeal in his friend's eyes and came over to the couch. He stooped over, listening, and laid his hand on the wrist.

  Merrick looked at him with fear in his eyes.

  "Is she--gone?" he murmured hoarsely.

  "No, I think not," said the other. "Let's have that ammonia. Dip that towel in some water and wet her face."

  Maris, with white face and frightened eyes, brought the bottle and then got a wet cloth and began to bathe her mother's face. She knelt down beside the couch and found she was trembling so that her knees would hardly support her.

  The telephone had ceased, and presently Gwyneth came to her brother.

  "It's Tilford," she said. "He said he's got to speak to Maris."

  "Well, he can't speak to Maris now. I'll tell His Highness where to get off!" And Merrick strode out in the hall to the telephone.

  If Maris heard at all, she was too frightened to take it in. She knelt there tenderly bathing her mother's still white face and trying to stop the trembling in her limbs, trying to keep her lips from quivering.

  She was aware that somebody else, an outsider, was kneeling beside her listening for a heartbeat, feeling for a slender, evasive pulse in her mother's frail wrist, but she did not turn her head to look at him. It didn't occur to her to wonder who he was or if she knew him. She was intent upon her mother's face. Was it too late? Was she gone from them forever? Would she never be able to tell her how much she loved her? How sorry and ashamed she was that she had let her do so many hard things alone, while she had gone on her blithe way having a good time and never noticing how hard she was making it for her precious mother.

  She thought of many things while she knelt there so quietly bathing that white face, helping the man beside her to lift the head of the sick woman and hold a glass of water to her lips. She was examining herself, seeing herself as she had never seen herself before in all her happy, carefree days.

  Maris did not hear Merrick at the telephone, though he was shouting angrily:

  "Well, you can't see my sister. She's busy. Our mother has been taken very ill. We aren't sure but she's dying. Get off this wire. I want to telephone for the doctor. Get off quick, I say!" Bang! Merrick hung up.

  Then in a second he lifted the receiver again.

  "Merrick, you must be crazy to speak to me this way. Do you realize what you are doing?" babbled forth the indignant voice of his future brother-in-law. "Tell Maris to come here at once. I must speak to her right away. I won't keep her but a moment, but I must tell her something right away!"

  "Will you get out of my way?" yelled Merrick. "If my mother dies for want of a doctor, we'll have you arrested for murder. Get off, I tell you! Thunder, have I got to go next door to get a message through to the doctor? Operator! Operator!"

  "But, Merrick, listen to me--"

  "Oh, go to thunder!" roared Merrick. "No, I won't listen to you. I'll go and use the neighbors' phone, and you can keep right on talking to yourself--" And Merrick banged the receiver down on the table and left Tilford protesting in dignified and indignant tones. But Merrick had gone next door to telephone, and presently Tilford took it in that nobody was listening to him. A vast silence seemed to have dropped down upon the wire, and nobody was getting the benefit of his high-sounding words. Tilford was a handsome man and usually depended a good deal on the effect of his personal appearance when he was talking, but he found himself at a great disadvantage just now, for his physical beauty had no effect whatever on the telephone wires. There didn't seem to be even an operator around to hear him. So at last he hung up in disgust. Somebody should suffer for this! Merrick, of course, was the greatest offender, but if Merrick were not available, his sister should certainly take it. Perhaps it would be as well for him to go right around to the house now and see Maris personally, make her understand what an unforgivable thing her brother had done. He never had liked that fellow anyway. When he and Maris were married, he would forbid Merrick from coming to the house! One didn't have to marry all one's wife's relatives of course. He would make her understand that thoroughly when the time came.

  So Tilford Thorpe started on his way to see Maris.

  Maris, on her knees beside the dining room couch, was holding a cloth wet in aromatic ammonia in front of her mother's face and crying in her heart, Oh, God. Don't let her die! Oh, God, please don't let my mother die! and was coming out rapidly from the coma of merriment into which the orgy of festivities connected with her engagement had plunged her.

  As the agonized minutes passed and still that white face did not change--save for a quick catching of breath, faintly, so faintly that they weren't quite sure it had been a breath--it seemed as if the atmosphere rapidly became clear of a lot of things that had filled it for Maris in the past weeks. True values of things and people began to adjust themselves to her sharply awakened mind. Such things as special hours for wedding invitations to be mailed and the importance of pleasing Tilford's relatives sank into insignificance. Years of tender care and sacrifice and precious love stood out in clear relief and importance. Strange sharp memories came and stood around like witnesses against her. The time when she had cut the vein in her wrist with the bread knife and Mother had held it together until the doctor got there. The time when the bull had dashed into the garden from a herd that was going by on the street and Mother had sheltered her behind her own body. That was when she was only two and a half years old, yet she remembered how safe she had felt. The time when she had the whooping cough and almost died, with an unbelievable temperature, and Mother had stayed up for two whole nights and days, most of the time on her knees bathing the hot little body under a blanket, trying to bring down the temperature. The time when there had had to be a blood transfusion and Mother had offered her own. Such a precious mother who had guarded and served them all. Her deeds stood crowding about the couch hand in hand, silent witnesses of the past. And last of all her lovely wedding dress seemed to her troubled mind to come floating down the stairs and stand with the rest about the couch where the little gray-faced mother lay.

  "Oh, Mother, Mother!" Maris suddenly cried, softly, and her hand paused with the wet cloth she was holding, and her head suddenly went down on her mother's breast for an instant of despair. Then up again instantly, just as strong hands lifted her, and Merrick's voice, grown suddenly tender and more worried, said, "Take her in the other room. I'll look out for Mother."

  That roused her. She straightened up.

  "No! No! I'm all right!" she whispered. "I must stay here!"

&nbs
p; "There's the doctor!" announced Gwyneth, hurrying to open the door. And then they all made way for the doctor, and Maris felt those strong arms lifting her again and leading her to a chair.

  She did not look up to see who it was. Her eyes were upon her mother's face there on the couch.

  Someone brought her a glass of water, and she drank it and then went back to stand at the head of the couch and watched the doctor's face.

  The strange young man was sent on an errand for the doctor, and Merrick went to telephone his father. Maris stayed to wait on the doctor and answer his questions, though she found it was fourteen-year-old Gwyneth who did most of the answering.

  "I wasn't here," was all Maris could say in answer to some question about whether her mother had felt bad the day before and what she had been doing.

  "She had an awful headache yesterday," said Gwyneth sadly. "I guess she worked too hard. She would do so many things. I tried to help her, but she sent me to do my homework and said she could do it all herself. But once I saw her put her hand over her heart, and I asked her what was the matter, and she said, 'Oh, just a sharp pain.' "

  "Had she been having pains in her heart?"

  "She never complained," said Maris sadly. "I'm afraid we were all so busy with our own affairs that we didn't notice."

  "She sewed a lot last night," volunteered Gwyneth. "She told me this morning she'd got it all done, what she was working on."

  Tears sprang to Maris's eyes, and she turned away to hide them and then turned back again as she heard her mother give a soft little breath of a sigh. Oh, was she coming back to them, or was she gone? She watched the grave face of the doctor anxiously, but he worked on quietly and gave no sign. Only asked for water and a spoon, and handed the glass back to Maris.

  A car drew up at the door. The young man came back and brought whatever it was that he had been sent for, but Maris took no notice of him. Some friend of Merrick's, she thought. Then a few minutes later a nurse arrived, and Maris caught her breath in hope and fear. But there was no time to ask questions. She must go upstairs and get the bed ready for the patient to be moved. There were sheets to hunt out, the good sheets. Where were the good sheets? Every one she unfolded seemed to be torn or badly frayed at the hems. Oh, the house was in perfect order for a wedding but not for an illness. And they had not been expecting to have any of the wedding party stay overnight with them, for they all lived in the town.