THE PACKET OF LETTERS.
THIS silence lasted, I suppose, some eight or ten minutes, each waiting
for the other to speak first.
Then the door burst open, and Maimie rushed in,—her eyes sparkling, and
a packet of papers in her hand.
“Look!” she cried,—“these are for you to see, Uncle Robert,—and Aunt
Marion too, if she likes. Three are letters from father to me—one
before he married mother, and two afterwards. And there are letters
from him to mother, which she gave me, and told me I was to keep. And
the others are between mother and me, when I was at school, and she was
thinking of marrying again. I didn’t like it at all then, for I did not
know he would be so kind to me.”
She laid the letters on my husband’s knee, breathing quickly with
excitement. I saw Jack hovering outside the door, in attendance on her
steps. He thrust his head in now, and said,—“Come, Maimie! Couldn’t get
her to touch a drop of tea, till the box was open, and she had hauled
out those papers. Come along, Maimie!”
And Maimie went. I kept silence still; and my husband as silently
opened the uppermost letter, and read, passing it on to me. He was
always a man of few words. I, on the contrary, was burning to speak;
yet a certain dread of saying the wrong thing restrained me.
The letters between Maimie and her mother made the matter clear
enough. They were very free and affectionate outpourings. Mrs. Browne
spoke cautiously at first of a certain Mr. Hazel, but very soon went
on to the mention of a coming stepfather. Maimie’s answers were full
of passionate remonstrances, gradually lessening. A kind little note
from Churton came in here, addressed to the excited school-girl.
“Churton himself!” my husband murmured over it, and I could have
echoed the words. The two from him, after the marriage, were equally
characteristic. He called her rather effusively, “his dear little
fair-haired dove.”
“By no means a dove-like nature,” I muttered.
The two or three letters from Churton Hazel to his wife came last; and
had any further proof been needed they would have supplied it.
“Well,” my husband said at length. He pressed the little pile of papers
together, sighed, and turned to me. “Well, Marion?”
“Churton has acted disgracefully,” I said.
“He means to write, I have no doubt.”
“I have very strong doubts.”
“Churton generally means to do the right thing, my dear,—but he very
seldom does it.”
“The question now is what to do with the girl,” I said impatiently.
“Of course we must keep her till we hear from him,” observed Robert, a
touch of hesitation or timidity coming into his voice.
“I don’t see any ‘of course’! She is no relation,—has no claim upon us.”
Robert moved his head,—whether in assent or dissent I could not tell.
“And we cannot afford to support her, Robert. We cannot possibly afford
it. She must go.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere.” My husband’s composure exasperated me. “That
is for you to decide. I only know that we cannot afford to keep her.”
“Till Churton writes,” suggested Robert.
“And suppose he does not write at all? As likely as not, this is a
trick for getting rid of her.”
“Marion, don’t hint that to Maimie again.”
“No,” I said. “But it is probably the truth.”
“We have no reason for supposing so,” said Robert.
“Well,—think as you like,” I said shortly. “I only know one thing,—that
we cannot keep her.”
“But, my dear Marion, what do you propose to do with the child?” asked
Robert seriously.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I only know we cannot afford any extra
expenses. And you know it too. The pull upon us now is terrible.” My
voice choked as I spoke. “It is no rare thing that the children have
barely enough to eat. And as for clothes—”
“I do not forget all that,” he said sadly.
“And yet you want to take up this burden too!”
“I! no,” he said, in a low voice. “I do not want it. But what if our
Master gives it to us to be carried?”
Both were silent, till Robert said again, “That is my feeling. And
also,—I do not think one can ever be really the poorer for money lent
to God.”
No doubt this was true. But money given grudgingly is not lent to God.
I had the thought strongly in my mind, yet could not utter it.
“Come, Marion, my love,—” and he looked anxiously at me,—“you know as
well as I do that only one path lies open to us. We must give the child
shelter for a little while. Possibly on inquiry we may find some clue
to Churton’s whereabouts,—or he may write. In any case we must have
time to consider our next step.”
“Could you not consult Aunt Briscoe?” I asked suddenly.
“Would she give advice that I could follow?”
“I think she would like to be consulted,” I said.
“Well, there is no harm in talking matters over with her. I think I can
arrange to go for half-a-day on Saturday. And you must come with me,
Marion, instead of Jack or Cherry. That will please Aunt Briscoe, and
we shall enjoy the little trip together.”
I did not think I could enjoy anything just then; but I made no
objection to the plan.
Maimie came up presently from the basement-room, with one arm linked in
Cherry’s, and a circle of fascinated boys hovering round. Nobody seemed
to feel as I did about the intruder.
Food and rest had brought back a delicate tint to her cheeks, and the
black eyes were shining with a satisfaction in which I had no share.
But as she crossed the room, a look of anxiety dawned, and she went
straight to my husband’s side.
“Have you read the letters, Uncle Robert?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes, Maimie.”
“And it is all true, isn’t it? I am not an impostor. Your brother
really is my stepfather.”
“Yes, it is all quite true,” Robert said. “There can be no mistake
about my brother’s handwriting.”
“I am so glad you are convinced. It was dreadful just at first, when I
almost thought I was going to be turned out into the street.”
She gave a half shudder, and crept closer to him. Robert’s arm went
round her, and the flaxen head lay on his shoulder.
“Oh, that is so nice,—so nice. It’s like mother.”
A sigh broke into the words. She must have been very tired, for after
sitting thus for some minutes she dropped asleep. A “hush” among the
children first drew my attention.
I could not help lifting my eyes from time to time, just for a look.
Maimie asleep was even more lovely than Maimie awake. The parted lips
had such a sweet sad curve.
Robert would not have her disturbed. He was not generally caressing in
manner, but Maimie had won upon him from the first moment. I wondered
if Cherry would feel jealous. But no,—Cherry was knitting away with a
bright face, glancing often from Maimie to Jack with looks of positive
delight. Jack simply sat and watched Maimie, in his favourite attitude,
propping his chin on the palms of his hands, and seeming oblivious of
everything else. Cresswell made scant advance with his lessons that
night; and even steady Owen worked with but fitful attention.
It must have been at least an hour before Maimie awoke. When she did,
I saw a tremulous start, and her eyes wandered round in bewilderment.
“Mother!” burst from her lips, and then there was a mournful,—“Oh, I
forgot;” and a deep sigh.
Jack could not stand it. He sprang up, and came a step or two nearer,
saying quite pitifully,—“Don’t, Maimie,—please don’t, Maimie.”
My husband put his arm round Maimie afresh; and Cherry left her work to
comfort the girl. But I could say and do nothing. I felt as if I stood
alone,—outside the circle interested in Maimie. It was the first time I
had ever known the sense of separation between me and mine. And there
is no separation like heart-separation.
“Maimie is tired out now. She will feel better in the morning,” Cherry
said cheerfully.
“Oh, I wish I hadn’t come! Oh, I do wish I hadn’t come!” I could hear
Maimie murmur in smothered tones.
“You mustn’t wish that, Maimie, because we are all so glad to have
you,” said Jack. “We’ll do our very best to make you happy.”
“Maimie, I shall take you to see St. Paul’s and the Tower, and all
sorts of London sights,” put in Cress, as his offered share of
consolation.
“Not Westminster Abbey. You’ll leave that to me,” Jack said, with a
touch of unwonted sharpness. “And the Houses of Parliament, and—”
“There is plenty for everybody to show Maimie,” said Cherry, in her
peace-making way. “But I think she wants nothing now so much as to go
to bed. Mother, may she—without waiting for prayers? she is so tired.”
“Maimie may go when she pleases,” I answered, hearing again the hard
sound in my voice.
“I’ll go up with you, Maimie, and see that everything is comfortable,”
Cherry said kindly. “Don’t cry any more, but come.”
And she was led away, sorrowful still. I think I just kissed her,
yet not cordially or willingly. If I saw that the burden had to be
accepted, at least for a while, I would not take my share of it with a
free heart.