AN EXCURSION.
TWO years had gone by since Mary Browne came to us,—Maimie, the
friendless and homeless girl, for a while unwelcome to my heart and
reluctantly accepted, yet now completely one of us. I doubt if even my
beloved Jack, even our good self-forgetting Cherry, would have been
more missed from among our circle than flaxen-haired, black-eyed Maimie
Browne.
Reluctantly accepted, for at first I would have done almost anything to
be rid of the burden, anything short of sending Maimie to a workhouse.
I could not resolve on that. Perhaps even from the first I was more
under the sway of Maimie’s attractions than I at all guessed. At all
events, not many months passed from the day of Maimie’s arrival, before
we should have been grieved indeed to part with her. Poor as we were,
Aunt Briscoe’s offer to give her a home was at once put aside.
I think it would have half-broken the child’s heart to leave us. Yet
sometimes the wonder did cross me whether we were quite right. A home
at “The Gables” meant ease and plenty. A home with us meant hard work
and scanty fare.
But Maimie did not see things so. She said she loved us all more than
anybody else in the world. She liked Aunt Briscoe and was grateful to
her, but she counted me as a second mother. She said often that she
knew she could be useful to us, and this was true indeed. But for her
teaching, the two youngest boys must have gone to school months before;
and though we now talked of sending them, she had them still in hand.
Jack, too, had become quite studious through her influence. And though
Maimie never was a good darner or mender, she had shown lately a new
gift in the way of dressmaking and bonnet-trimming, which we found very
serviceable.
Between all these employments and her own studies, it was no wonder
that Maimie looked worn sometimes. She was taller and thinner than of
old, with the same soft outline of features, the same pale skin and
crimson lips. And the abundant flaxen hair was not a shade darker,
and the black eyes were just as loving. I never saw a girl quite like
Maimie anywhere—so very pretty, yet seeming to think so little about
her own looks. She had a quiet, self-possessed manner, beyond her
years. Many people took her at first sight for older than Cherry.
All through these two years, we had not heard a word of Maimie’s
stepfather, my brother-in-law Churton Hazel. He had sent only the one
cheque for twenty-five pounds, a few months after Maimie’s first coming
to us; and that, I suppose, eased his conscience. No second cheque
came; and we had not the very least idea where he was, or what he might
be doing.
Early in June, Maimie’s seventeenth birthday would come. Jack was very
anxious to make it a gala-day.
I ought to say here that my boys were doing well. Jack, at nineteen,
was a fine broad-shouldered fellow, getting on capitally at his work,
giving satisfaction, and really quite shaking off his old blundering
ways, thanks chiefly to Maimie. Jack would never be brilliant, and we
all knew that, but he was fast becoming as steady and dependable in his
office as he had always been in his home.
He had never lost sight of his sudden resolution to “be a man,” and to
conquer his faults. I am sure also that he had never forgotten Maimie’s
suggestion that he must pray for help. I feel convinced that Jack did
indeed pray, and that we saw the answer to his prayers in his life. We
were all so fond and proud of Jack—Maimie as much as anybody.
Cresswell, at eighteen, had grown pretty well reconciled to office
work. The old college dream had dropped into the background, and seemed
forgotten.
He was rather small still, and handsome, and stronger in health than
he used to be. People often said he was much better-looking than Jack.
But Cherry and I never could understand how anybody could think so for
a moment. Cress had straighter and thinner features, it is true; but
Jack was so tall and manly, so protecting and kind to anybody weaker
than himself, and so polite in his manners. Kindness and politeness are
more to be admired than straight and delicate features. And poor Cress
always seemed too much occupied with himself to have much kindness or
politeness for other people.
The next two boys were off our hands, or at least away from home.
There had come a good opening for Owen in a mercantile house in the
north of England; and there our steady third son had been busy for
nearly a year, winning good opinions from all around. And Fred had
lately obtained the darling wish of his heart, by going on board a
training-ship for the Merchant Navy. I did wish it could have been the
Royal Navy; but this lay outside our means.
So the burdens of life seemed to be a little lessening, though perhaps
it was so far more in seeming than in reality. For our absent boys
were, of course, still a pull upon the home purse, and we often felt
ourselves to be encompassed with difficulties. As one cloud went,
another came. Yet always and always we were helped through.
Many a time, looking ahead, I have felt that the next step hardly could
be taken. But when the step became needful, we found it to be possible.
So, step by step, we not only went on our way through life, but step by
step we were helped; and step by step we learnt more fully lessons of
quiet trust in our Father’s loving care. I often thought in those days
of Cherry’s favourite text, “All these things shall be added.” For they
were added—all our real and actual needs, though not perhaps all the
things we could have wished to possess.
But to return to Maimie’s birthday, a memorable day in my life.
After much talk and hesitation, Hampton Court was fixed upon as the
scene for our excursion. Maimie’s birthday would happily be on a
Saturday, so my husband and Jack and Cress could all accompany us. We
determined to leave nobody at home, except a girl in charge of the
house. Jack had put aside a little money, wherewith he undertook to
treat us all; and he promised also to provide sandwiches and buns for
the occasion.
The day came, bright enough to satisfy all hopes. I remember well what
a glisten of sunshine was in the air as we rowed up the river, for the
boys would not hear of going by train. This was far the pleasantest
way, no doubt. My husband took an oar now and then, to relieve Cress;
but Jack kept his untiringly the whole distance. Cherry and the little
boys tried their hand at it, amid much fun; and Maimie proved herself
an efficient steerer.
We were all very merry, Maimie being the merriest among us. I can
recall how sweet and bright she looked, chatting and laughing, or
sitting in a dreamy silence of complete enjoyment. I remember too how
absorbed Jack and Cress were with her; how they seemed to think of
hardly anybody or anything else, and how they were almost ready to
quarrel for the honour of sitting near her, or lending her a helping
hand.
After landing, we strolled first to a quiet nook, and there had our
little meal together; for it was past two, and we were very hungry.
There were sandwiches in abundance, and an ample supply of tarts,
buns, cake, and soda-water. Jack had done the thing liberally; yet his
provision proved not too great for our needs. Little remained over when
we had all done eating.
We then separated, agreeing to meet at a certain part of Bushey
Park, between four and half-past. My husband wanted to take a quiet
dawdle through the grounds and in the palace. The other six went off
together. But somehow they, too, fell apart, before they were out of my
sight,—Cherry behind, with Bob and Ted; Maimie in front, with Jack and
Cress.
I could not help sighing quietly. It seemed to dawn on me all at once
that trouble in that direction might be lying ahead. Robert asked
laughingly what the sigh meant.
“Only a mother’s worries,” I said. “I wish Jack and Cress were not both
so devoted to Maimie.”
“My dear! Infants, all of them!” Robert said, in an amused voice.
“I don’t know about ‘infancy,’” I said. “Jack is very fast becoming a
man. And Maimie is as womanly as Cherry.”
“Maimie!” he said, in surprise.
“Yes; you don’t see it, of course, because she has soft clinging ways.
But Maimie is grown-up in mind and character. Jack and Cress don’t
think of her as a child. To them she is a woman.”
“You are a woman, my dear,” Robert said, smiling. “And women have
fertile imaginations.”
“Women see further than men,” I answered. “I hope I am mistaken,
Robert,—but I have a horror of brothers being rivals.”
I do not think we said any more then on the subject. It took us a good
while to stroll through the gallery, and then we made our way to the
beautiful lime avenue in Bushey Park. Robert and I sat down there under
a tree, and presently he was dropping asleep. So I quietly got up, and
walked about alone. It was just four, and I expected my children to
appear before long.