Maris Read online

  "But where could you stay, dear? You know Mother would be terribly worried to have you away from home alone. If only we had a relative nearby. But there isn't a soul."

  "Couldn't I stay with Erminie Howard? She's only half a block away, and I could telephone every day. You know Mother lets me stay all night with Erminie sometimes, and Mrs. Howard is just as particular as Mother is."

  "Well, but Gwyneth, that's a great deal to ask of anybody, to take in a boarder for two or three weeks."

  "I won't have to ask her; she's already asked me," said Gwyneth. "She suggested it just as soon as she heard Lexie had the measles."

  "You mean Erminie suggested it. But that's not her mother."

  "Oh, but her mother came out to the door just now as I was passing by and said she would love to have me come. She said she counted our mother her very dearest friend, and she would so love to do something to help while Mother is sick. She said to tell you she understood just how Mother felt and she would take just as good care of me as she did of Erminie."

  "Why, that is lovely, Gwynnie. Yes, I guess that would be the best thing for you. I didn't know but you might be needed to run errands here, but you'd be near enough for us to phone you if we needed you. Yes, I guess you'd better plan to do that. Go pack a suitcase, dear, the things you'll need for school and church, and a couple of pretty dresses for dinner at night. Can you do it yourself, or do you want me to do it?"

  "Oh, I'd love to do it," said Gwyneth. "But----Maris, are you sure I wouldn't be needed? I wouldn't like to be away if Mother got worse, not even if I failed in my exams."

  "Of course not!" said Maris briskly. "We're not going to need you at all, I'm sure. Errands can be done after school, but there ought not to be many of those. And as for Mother, of course if Mother got worse I'd send for you at once. You don't need to worry about that, dear."

  "You think Mother is going to get well, don't you, sister?"

  "Oh, I think so. I hope so. I'm sure the doctor feels she is getting along--that is, she hasn't had any more bad symptoms for the last three hours."

  "Where is Daddy?"

  "He's in Mother's room close by her bed, fast asleep in the big old rocking chair, with her hand in his," said Maris with a tender inflection in her tone and a sweet look in her eyes.

  "Isn't he dear, Maris?" said the younger sister. "If I ever get married, I'm going to marry a man just like Father! I like him a great deal better than these fancy handsome men that are selfish and think their wives have got to do as they say in everything. Daddy always acts as if Mother were the most precious thing in the world to him. I never heard him cross with her, or faultfinding!"

  There was a conscious little flush on Maris's cheeks, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears as she answered quickly: "That's right, dear. Father and Mother are wonderful with each other."

  "Well, there aren't so many," said Gwyneth in a wise tone out of her fourteen years of experience. "I wish you'd see Elizabeth Randall's folks! My! Her father frightens me the way he talks to Elizabeth's mother. That's why I never like to go there when he's home. He always acts as if any of us girls were spiders, or thousand-leggers or something, when he finds us there when he comes home. I never go there anymore if I can help it, though I love Elizabeth. But she hasn't got a happy home like ours. Her mother always looks awfully sad. I think folks ought to be awfully careful who they marry for the sake of their children, don't you, Maris?"

  "I certainly do!" said Maris, her cheeks flaming now, as she stooped and kissed her young sister to hide her own confusion. She wondered as Gwyneth tiptoed off happily to pack for her visit whether Gwyneth had overheard any of Tilford's lofty rebukes and advice. And it came to her with a pang that there were some serious questions for herself to consider that she hadn't yet thought of in connection with this business of getting married. One couldn't just consider one's own part. There was the future and children to think of. It made life a very grave matter. As soon as Mother was out of danger and Lexie on the way to recovery, she must take time off and seriously consider her own future and whether she was absolutely sure--! But of course it was rather late for that! She glanced down at the blazing diamond on her finger and remembered what Tilford had said it represented.

  Of course, Tilford was a bit angry. He hadn't really meant that. But yet, there had been a note of seriousness in his voice as if behind all the love and tenderness he was supposed to have for her, the engagement did signify a sort of business contract, in which he had all the rights and she would have to submit. Every time she thought of it, it troubled her. She must really have a plain, tender talk with him and let him know how he had hurt her. He probably had no idea how he had made her feel or, even though he was disappointed and annoyed, he never could have gone quite so far.

  Maris looked in on Lexie. She was sleeping nicely, and her head was not quite so hot, perhaps. It almost seemed as if the little hands were more moist. If only that rash would come out fully and do its work instead of hanging back with that menacing reluctance, what a relief it would be!

  Maris slipped downstairs and found Sally in her element, preparing an appetizing supper, making delicacies for the sick that the present state of the invalids would never allow them to eat. Sally would carry on downstairs, and there was no need to worry about things there.

  Merrick had gone to his father's office on an errand for him, and then to see a man he hoped would give him a job for the summer. Merrick would be through with his college freshman year in another two weeks. What a blessing he didn't have to go away to college but had chosen one where he could live at home! What would she do without Merrick?

  Somehow since morning it seemed as if the whole face of life had been changed for Maris. Family seemed brought back to their close relationship once more, and things were settling into their true values. Was that just since morning? It seemed several weeks as she reviewed the experiences through which she had passed, and today was as far removed from yesterday in all its plans and activities as it could possibly be. Yesterday seemed but a passing dream, and only today was real. Even Tilford and his self-important family did not loom so large. Why had she been so worried about what they thought? She would just go upstairs and lie down a few minutes and put them all out of her thoughts. Then her mind would be clear to know how to solve all her problems.

  But just then the buzzer of the telephone, which had been substituted for the bell, burred out and startled her. She answered it, with sudden apprehension in her heart.

  "Is that you, Maris?" The voice was a well-modulated one, smooth as butter and honey-sweet, with a neat little tang of authority beneath this honey flow.

  "Yes?" said Maris apprehensively.

  "You poor child!" said the voice caressingly. "You certainly are having a terrific time! We have felt it for you all day and have been talking over ways and means. By the way, I hope your mother is much better by this time and your mind is relieved?"

  "No, Mrs. Thorpe. She isn't any better," said Maris sorrowfully. "I'm afraid the doctor doesn't expect her to be really better very soon. She just isn't any worse this afternoon, and that is an encouragement, of course. It is very kind of you to inquire."

  "Oh, not at all. Of course, we were much disturbed by the news this morning, but I do trust that your doctor is wrong and she will soon be better. But you have a competent nurse, haven't you?"

  "Yes, we have a good nurse," said Maris perfunctorily, wishing this homily would draw to a finish and she could go and rest.

  "Well, that's half the battle, of course," said Mrs. Thorpe. "And your little sister? Is it really measles? What a pity! She will be so disappointed not to be in the wedding procession. But a child soon forgets, and I'm sure my little granddaughter will be delighted to take her place, so you don't need to worry about that. And now, my dear, Tilford was obliged to go unexpectedly over to the clubhouse to meet a man on business, and he asked me to call you up and remind you that you and he had an engagement this evening. I told him I didn't t
hink it would be necessary, you are always so punctilious about your engagements, but I promised I would call. I suppose you remember Tilford's sister Irma is expecting you for dinner this evening at eight, don't you?"

  Maris paused, aghast. Did they actually expect her to attend another ghastly family dinner when she was in the midst of anxiety and sickness?

  Maris took a deep breath and waited a second to steady her voice.

  "Yes, I knew we had the engagement," she said slowly, choosing her words, "but I supposed, of course, Tilford would make my apologies. I should have called up myself, but every minute has been filled with such anxiety and hard work that it hadn't occurred to me I should have let Irma know. I'm sorry. I hope she'll forgive me, and I'm sure she'll understand. I'll phone right away and ask her forgiveness. It is terrible, but of course if she knew the circumstances she wouldn't expect me to come."

  "But, my dear! You can't get out of a dinner engagement like that! You know that is one thing one has to do if one is alive, to keep a dinner engagement! No, Irma does not know anything about the series of upsets you have been having today. I purposely didn't tell her because I was sure you would see your duty and not cause her embarrassment. Besides, my dear, Tilford and I have arranged everything for you. We have secured a charming young nurse who is a specialist with children, and she will be at your house at five o'clock and take full charge of the little sister until she is well again. And at six o'clock Tilford will be there with the car to bring you and your suitcases, for, my child, you are to stay with us until the wedding! We felt that it was imperative that you have your rest beforehand. We don't want a washed out––looking bride. Of course, you can run down and see your mother every day or two if you feel that it's necessary, and for the rest, I shall take charge of you and see that you live a normal, unhurried, carefree life. Besides, my dear, you must realize there are a number of showers and parties that you are expected to attend during the next three weeks, affairs that are made for you and are dependent on your presence for their success. Your friends and Tilford's have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to show you their love and appreciation, and it would be the rudest thing possible for you to utterly spoil their parties now when it is too late to recall them. Besides, it can't possibly do your mother any good for you to mope in the house until she is well. I'm sure that if she is not utterly selfish and were consulted, she would say that I am entirely right.

  "So we are arranging for you to be here during the next strenuous weeks until the wedding is over, and then your coming and going need not affect the patients in the house. So, my dear, run along and get packed, for the nurse will be there soon, and Tilford doesn't want to be kept waiting tonight, he says."

  Maris was so still for a long moment that Mrs. Thorpe thought she must have hung up or that something was wrong with the phone. She began to jiggle the receiver up and down. Maris was so angry she could hardly trust herself to speak. She shut her eyes and leaned her head against the telephone. This was a crucial moment, and she dare not trust her overwrought feelings. Then she spoke:

  "I suppose that you are trying to be kind to me, Mrs. Thorpe, and I should perhaps thank you for thinking of me, but what you have suggested is quite out of the question. We do not want another nurse, and if she comes I shall only have to send her away, so if she has not already started, kindly tell her not to come. And as for your other suggestion, that I come to your house and stay, even for only the evening, it is quite impossible. Unfortunately for your plans, I love my mother and my little sister, and I would not be willing to be away from them at this time of trouble and anxiety. I could not, even for the sake of social etiquette, be willing to attend a party of any kind when my mother is lying at the point of death and my whole family needs me as they have never needed me before. I should think that anyone with any heart at all would know this and understand perfectly. My friends all would, and would not expect me to come. But if there are any who do not, I do not care. I shall go out no more till my mother is better and I am not needed here. I will immediately call up the people who have invited me and inform them of the situation. And please do not trouble any further to make plans for me. You apparently do not understand my situation in the least."

  "Oh, really?" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I should say that you were an ungrateful girl. A headstrong little spitfire! Well, I have done my best to help you through a trying situation. I told Tilford he had better tell you himself, but he seemed to think I could handle the situation more delicately. I see he was wrong. Well, he will probably be around to explain himself how hard we have tried to fix things for you. Good afternoon!" And Mrs. Thorpe hung up.

  When Maris turned away from the telephone, she was trembling with indignation. The idea of expecting her to go out to dinner when her mother was so sick! Well, of course, she should have remembered to telephone Irma. She would do it at once.

  So she looked up the number and fortunately got her haughty future sister-in-law without trouble. She explained!

  "I'm just as sorry as I can be that I didn't call you sooner, Irma, to let you know that I can't come to your dinner tonight," she said humbly, "but I suppose, of course, Tilford would tell you all about our trouble here. And to tell you the truth, I have been so frightened all day, and so hurried and burdened, that everything else was driven out of my head. I do hope you will forgive me for not sending you word at once. My mother is at the point of death, and I cannot be away from the house."

  "Oh, really?" said Irma coldly. "And what am I supposed to do? I invite my friends to meet my future sister-in-law and she stays away! Surely you wouldn't put me in that position. You certainly can get away for a few hours, can't you? Aren't there enough in your family to look out for your mother? And there are such things as doctors and nurses. Surely her life is not dependent upon you, and nobody who will be here knows your mother anyway."

  "Oh, Irma!" said Maris, aghast at such a cold-blooded attitude. "Would you go out to a dinner party when your mother might be dying?"

  "I'm sure I hope I'd do my duty!"

  It was very still on the line. If anybody were listening in, they certainly didn't dare to breathe. Then Maris said quite calmly, "Well, I'm doing my duty, and I'll not be at the dinner. I'm sorry!" And she hung up.

  As Maris turned away again from the telephone, there were angry tears in her eyes. She felt outraged that Tilford's relatives were insisting upon her attendance at all festivities when she was in great anxiety. It seemed fairly inhuman. Just to save themselves embarrassment!

  Suddenly she saw it all. They were ashamed of an alliance with plain people like the Mayberrys who didn't live on the Hill, nor own an estate, nor ride in a limousine. They didn't want to explain who was the mother of their son's fiancée. They wouldn't own that they felt that way, of course, for they knew the Mayberrys were an old, fine family, even if they hadn't much money. But it became just as plain as day to her that they intended, just as soon as the wedding was over, to separate her from her own family and ignore them entirely. They meant she should be absorbed into their family and become a Thorpe!

  All at once a great wave of hate for them all came over her so that she was quite startled and amazed at herself. She had never knowingly hated anybody in her life before. Tears of helpless rage poured into her eyes and down her face.

  The telephone was in a little hall closet, which Merrick had fitted up with a light overhead, a shelf for the phone, and a single pane of glass in the panel of the door.

  As Maris came out, she was aware of a shadow falling across the hall floor from outside the door, and as she brushed the tears away from her eyes, the shadow moved and had become a man standing at the front door just outside the screen.

  He was tapping gently on the door with the tips of his fingers. It was Lane Maitland.

  "I didn't want to ring the bell lest I would disturb the invalids," he explained in a very low tone. "I just stepped over to say that the detention camp is in full action and the crew seem very well pleas
ed with arrangements. They are scrubbing up for supper now and sent me over to say that they will stay there till further orders from you. I am detailed to call Merrick to bring over a duffel bag with night things and toothbrushes and so on. Will the arrangement please Your Honor?"

  He was smiling and utterly ignoring the tears on her face, which she knew he could not help but see, and in spite of herself, she smiled back.

  "Don't tell me those boys thought of toothbrushes themselves!" she said with a hysterical giggle, openly digging her knuckles into her eyes to stop the flow of tears.

  "Well, perhaps they didn't just go into the details," Maitland said, grinning, and suddenly he became grave.

  "The patients aren't any worse, are they?" he asked anxiously, taking obvious notice of her weeping now, which his kind tone only seemed to make uncontrollable.

  "No," she said, shaking her head and flipping away those unmanageable tears with the tips of her fingers, "not that I know of. It's not any worse than it was, I guess. But--well--I guess I'm just plain mad!" She gave a little hurt laugh. "I've been talking with some people who don't understand! Who won't understand! Who only think of themselves!"

  "There are lots like that, aren't there?" he agreed. "And it's maddening. But when I get like that, I like to remember what my mother used to say, that she was so glad God had said vengeance was His and He would repay where it was needed and we didn't have to do a thing about it! 'Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him.' "

  She looked at him for a minute, and her face changed.

  "I never thought of it like that," she said humbly. "I never realized that God would care about what people did to me. I thought I was all alone in it. But it would help a lot to realize He does, and He'll do the getting even if there's any getting even to be done."

  A light came into Maitland's eyes, a light of satisfaction, as if she had measured up to what he had hoped.

  "Yes, it takes responsibility off us, doesn't it? I kind of hoped you'd feel that way. And now, is there anything I could do?"