“SOME ONE UNEXPECTED.”
TEA was coming to an end when the postman’s knock sounded, and Ted
rushed upstairs for what had come. That was his privilege, as our
youngest. The postman was not wont to rap often at our door, for we had
no spare money to spend in unnecessary correspondence.
“It’s for mother,” Ted cried, as he dropped a square envelope in front
of me, and bounced down on his chair.
The arrival of a letter generally caused some excitement in our quiet
life; but I knew well enough who it was from, even before my eyes fell
upon the handwriting; and so did the others. My husband said, “Aunt
Briscoe, of course;” for she was as regular as clockwork in her ways,
and never failed to write to him or me on Thursday morning, so that we
might hear on Thursday evening. I cannot say why she chose Thursday.
Perhaps all her correspondents were parcelled out among the days of the
week.
I did not expect the letter to contain anything of particular interest;
still we were all pleased to hear from her.
Mrs. Briscoe was my husband’s Aunt by marriage; and in his boyhood she
and her husband had often asked him and his younger brother Churton
to stay with them, at their pretty little country home, not far from
London. Mr. Briscoe had died only three years before the time of which
I am writing. He had left all he had to his widow, and she lived on
at “The Gables:” by no means then so country-like a residence as in
Robert’s boyish days, yet pretty enough still.
Mr. Briscoe’s father had been a successful man in trade, and Mr.
Briscoe himself had known how to take care of that which came to him.
But the only child had died not long before Mr. Briscoe’s own death.
It was a generally understood thing that Mrs. Briscoe would leave her
money, or the chief part of it, to my husband.
Not that Robert and I could feel any certainty. We knew this to have
been Mr. Briscoe’s wish and intention, and while he lived many a
helpful gift had found its way to us. Mrs. Briscoe was of a different
nature, however. Giving presents was not at all in her line; and
nothing would have offended her more than to hear that we expected to
receive anything at her death as a matter of course.
We were on pleasant terms, so far. She liked to see us sometimes; and
she wrote regularly; and in her own way she was kind: yet we could no
longer look to “The Gables” for help in times of difficulty.
I think Mrs. Briscoe was a well-meaning woman; but she had not the
great gifts of sympathy and generosity.
The letter which came that evening I have by me still, though why I
kept it I can hardly say. I read it first to myself, then aloud:—
“MY DEAR NIECE MARION,—I hope you and your
good husband and all your party are well.
I cannot say I am in health myself, but
doubtless it is only to be expected that
I should not feel quite so young as I
once was.”
“It is now three months since I have
seen any of you. Will you tell your husband
that I shall be pleased if he will come to
visit me some day soon; either taking early
dinner or tea at my house, whichever he may
prefer. Also I should like to see one of
your children. If Jack has been a good boy
lately, he has the first right as eldest.
Otherwise my nephew may bring Cherry.”
“I am aware that he will have to wait
till he can find a leisure day. The expense
may be a matter of consideration to you,
therefore I will undertake it. Of course
Robert travels third-class.”
“Excuse a short letter, as my hands are
rather disabled by rheumatic gout; and
believe me, your affectionate Aunt,”
“ELIZABETH BRISCOE.”
“Well, Jack, are you a good boy?” I asked laughingly.
“No, mother, I’m afraid not,” Jack answered; and his face was overcast
all at once. “I made some awful blunders to-day, and had a regular
rowing.”
Ah, I might have guessed that something was wrong, when I saw him so
extra merry.
“But it wasn’t your fault, Jack,” cried Cherry.
“I don’t know. They said it was.”
“Two and two made five, I suppose, by way of variety,” Cress said, with
a superior air.
“No, not quite so bad as that,” Jack replied humbly.
I did not want to have any more about it in public; so I got up, and
there was a general move. The children came flocking upstairs after us,
but I soon sent the three youngest down again. My husband looked more
than usually tired, and was quickly nodding in his arm-chair, instead
of reading. Cherry stayed behind to wash up the tea-things. She was
very quick, however, and in no long time came among us. Cresswell and
Owen were learning their lessons, and Jack had taken a seat near me,
with his chin on his hands, and his eyes following my needle.
“What a shame it is boys can’t work!” he said, as Cherry came in.
“I don’t see why they can’t,” said Cherry, taking up a half-knitted
sock. “Some do.”
“My fingers are much too clumsy for anything of that sort,” said Jack.
“I don’t think your fingers are really clumsy, Jack,” Cherry answered,
and she looked earnestly at him. “They are so clever at carpentering.
And if any one is ill, your hands are so strong and gentle. It is only
writing that they find difficult.”
“Stupid things!” Jack muttered, and he struck one hand with the other
quite savagely. “Mother, what shall we do if they won’t keep me on
there?”
“There” meant the office where he was at work.
“But they must, Jack,” Cherry said before I could speak. “You must
please them.”
Her answer was so good that I attempted no other. We were silent for
half a minute, and in that half minute there was a sharp peal at the
front door. Cherry rose to answer it, but Owen forestalled her.
Owen came next after the twins in age. He was not quite fourteen, a
steady lad, rather slow in his way of doing things, but always ready to
help other people. Sometimes I wished I could put a little of my own
quicksilver into him. Perhaps he did as well without it.
He left the room in his usual deliberate way; but his return was not so
deliberate. There was a short parley outside, a childish voice chiming
in with his. Then our door was flung wide open, and Owen came in with a
leap, his face crimson.
“Father!” he cried. “Mother! She says she’s our cousin.”
Robert sat upright, startled out of his doze, hardly yet awake enough
to speak. Cress muttered, “What a racket!” and I said, “My dear, what
do you mean?”
“She says she’s our cousin. I’ll bring her in,” cried Owen.
He was off again before we could check him; and indeed I think we were
all bewildered. The next moment Owen stood once more before me, and
beside him was a girlish figure, not much shorter than Cherry, with
thick fur round throat and wrists, and hair of pale flaxen curling down
her back from under a small furry hat. The delicate little face showed
no trace of colour, except in a pair of bright red lips and the black
eyes looked wistfully up into mine.
“Are you Aunt Marion Hazel?” the rosy lips asked.
“My name is Marion Hazel,” I said coldly, while the boys drew round,
and Cherry seemed spellbound. “But there must be some mistake. I have
no niece.”
She turned slowly from me to my husband and back again.
“My name is Mary,” she said, “but every one calls me ‘Maimie.’ I am
Maimie Browne,—and my mother married Mr. Churton Hazel.”
“Churton! Is it possible?” said my husband. We had heard for years
little or nothing of his only brother. Churton had spent a somewhat
wild youth, and had gone out to Canada long before.
“Mr. Churton Hazel is my stepfather,” the girl said, standing still
with clasped hands. “And after mother’s death he was so good to me. He
often talked of ‘Aunt Marion’ and ‘Uncle Robert,’ and he has sent me to
you. He said he would write and explain. He said you would give me a
home—such a happy English home.”
“And so we will,” burst from impulsive Jack. “Mother, so we will.”
But I only looked at my husband, and said, “It seems a strange story.”
“Churton has never written,” said my husband. “It is nearly six years
since his last letter to me.”
“But Maimie is our cousin, mother,” put in Cherry.
“Not exactly,” I said.
Maimie’s bright eyes were glancing from one to another. “Has not father
written?” she asked, in a tone of surprise.
“No, my dear,” Robert said.
She sighed deeply, and murmured, “O how strange! He promised!”
“It is—very strange,” I said, and my voice sounded hard even to
myself. “Very odd that no news should have reached us, even of my
brother-in-law’s marriage.”