THE NEW-COMER.
ROBERT found a box of matches, and lighted the gas; Cherry letting down
the blind again. The brothers could see one another then.
I think Robert and Churton were always very different, even in their
boyish days. Certainly it would have been hard to find any likeness
between the two that evening.
For Robert was careworn and aged for his years, with grey streaks in
his hair, and furrows in brow and cheek; and he had slow quiet manners,
and a wonderfully good expression, always kind and thoughtful.
But Churton might have been twenty years the younger. His black hair
and beard were quite untouched with grey; and he was stout and strong,
with a loud voice. I do so dislike a loud voice, whether in a man or a
woman. Churton had once been handsome. His good looks were gone now,
however; for his features had grown coarse. While Robert’s had been a
life of self-denial, Churton’s had been a life of self-indulgence. One
could read the difference of the brothers’ lives in their faces.
“So you wouldn’t have known me?” Churton said to Maimie. She had
let him kiss her, and now she was keeping close to my side, looking
troubled and pale. “Nor you either, Robert?”
“No, I should not,” Robert answered. “You are a good deal changed. But
we are glad to see you again, after all these years.”
“That’s as much of a welcome, I suppose, as the scapegrace of the
family can expect,” Churton said, with his harsh laugh. I saw Maimie
shrink under it. She had grown used to my husband’s quiet ways. And our
boys, with all their high spirits, were not loud-voiced or noisy.
“What made you come to England?” asked Robert.
“What made me? Why, there was Maimie to see after, for one thing.
And I wanted a look at the old country. I told the child I should
come,—didn’t I, Maimie?”
“Yes, but you never wrote, father, so I thought you could not have
meant it,” Maimie said, a touch of resentment showing in her manner.
“Couldn’t be bothered to write,—I never can,—it’s too much trouble.”
There spoke the selfishness of the man. I looked back, in thought, to
the first months after Maimie’s arrival, and remembered how happy a few
lines might have made the poor child. But evidently Churton had no idea
of blaming himself.
“Of course I meant it. You didn’t think I had forgotten my little
dove.” He spoke the words in a manner more like the Churton of my young
days. “Come here, child; I want a look at you.”
Maimie obeyed, not without an effort. He took hold of her arm, turned
her round, and surveyed her from head to foot.
“Upon my word, you’re an uncommonly pretty creature; but London has
left you no roses. You had plenty when I first saw you.”
“Never, since my mother’s death,” murmured the girl.
“To be sure,—yes,—that did knock you down a good deal. That was one
reason why I thought a change to England would do you good. She was
getting morbid,” he explained, looking at Robert:—“always crying, and
going for long walks by herself, and poring over goody-goody books.”
Maimie’s eyes flashed. “Father, I used to be reading the Bible.”
“Quite right in moderation, of course,” Churton said.
“And if I loved it then, I love it more than ever now,” Maimie said
hurriedly, her chest heaving. “I couldn’t live with dear dear Aunt
Marion and Uncle Robert, and not love my Bible.”
Churton looked her all over again, as if he counted her a curiosity.
“That’s the worst of the matter,” he said to himself. “I might have
known I was sending her into a hotbed of cant.”
“Father! if you say such things, I’ll not speak to you again.”
I had never seen Maimie in a passion before. It was not her way. She
seemed completely upset,—probably from the shock of Churton’s sudden
arrival, following close upon a trying afternoon. Churton said,
“Hallo!” as if this were a new phase in the character of his “little
dove.” My husband stood up, and went to her side.
“Maimie,” he said very low.
She turned and clung to him, with tears and sobs. But the very pressure
of his arm seemed at once quieting. A few whispered words were spoken,
too low to reach any ears except Maimie’s; while Churton sat looking
in astonishment. Then Maimie had conquered her outburst, and stood
upright, trembling.
“I was wrong to speak so,” she said. “I was wrong to give way to
temper,—about that especially. But, father, please you mustn’t forget
that Uncle Robert and Aunt Marion took me in when I had no home and
no friends. And though they are poor, they have made me like one of
their own children. And I love them—oh, more than I can tell—more than
anybody else in the world. It is not cant in this house. It is real
real religion.”
“Very pretty gratitude,” Churton said, after a pause, and I could see
that he was not pleased. “Positively romantic and touching. I suppose
the meaning of all this is, Robert, that you have been at more expense
with the girl than you liked. Well, I’m ready to make it up to you.
After that, we shall be quits, I suppose. I sent one cheque, and you
shall have another.”
The manner of speech was very annoying,—almost offensive. I bit my
lips to keep myself silent. Robert went back to his chair, followed by
Maimie, and then said gravely,—“We can discuss that by-and-by.”
“As you like. I’ve not made up my mind yet about plans. Most likely I
shall spend a few months in England. Maimie can do as she likes about
coming to me directly, or staying a little longer with you,—if you
don’t object to keep her, that is to say. I shall only be in lodgings
at first,—not very comfortable for her.”
I could see Maimie’s shiver, and I heard more than one suppressed “Oh!”
from other parts of the room. “Certainly we do not wish to part with
Maimie a day sooner than need be,” I said.
“That’s as you like; I’m in no immediate hurry till I see my way.
By-the-bye, what of the old lady—Aunt Briscoe? Alive still?”
“Very much alive,” Cress said, in answer to this.
“No signs of failing? She must be old. Worth a good deal, I suppose?”
“She has her house and garden, and a comfortable income,” Robert said.
“Where does it all go when she dies?”
“Where she chooses,” Robert answered.
“Wish she’d choose to leave it to me. I could settle down then in
England with this child.”
“Really, Churton,” I could not help saying, “you seem to forget that
you are the youngest son.”
“Not at all. But Robert says the old lady is free.”
“She is not actually bound; but of course she knows what her husband’s
wishes were. Robert has always been looked upon as their heir.”
“There is no need to discuss the question,” my husband said. He always
had a great dislike to counting for gain on the death of another. “Aunt
Briscoe may live twenty years longer,—may live longer than either
Churton or I.”
And the subject was dropped. But a strange feeling came over me, that
Churton was harbouring secret designs upon the old lady’s property.
I said nothing to anybody, and tried to put aside the suspicion as
unkind. Yet it came back to me again and again.
“Oh, what a day this has been!” Maimie said, sighing, when I went with
the two girls into their bedroom. “I am so tired.”
“I don’t wonder,” I said; and when she had dropped into a chair, I
stood by her, stroking the soft flaxen hair.
“Aunt Marion, he wasn’t like that before,” she said, in a different
tone.
“Not like what?”
“Like that—like what he is now. He seems so altered.”
“You were such a child then,—perhaps you did not notice.”
“No, no; he wasn’t the same. He was quieter; he didn’t speak in such a
rough loud way. It isn’t like him. I think he must have had bad friends
lately. O if only I were your child!” and she held me fast.
“I wish so too,” I said. “But I am sure we count you our child.”
“But father wants me, and he means to have me,” she said, a frightened
look coming over her face. “He means it!”
“He seems in no hurry,” Cherry remarked.
“No, that is his way. He is never in a hurry. But he is set upon having
me. Don’t you see it? Aunt Marion, must I go? I’m not his own child.”
“I suppose he is your natural guardian,” I said slowly. “If he really
wished for you, I am not sure that we could refuse, or that we should
be right to try.”
“To leave you and go to live with him! O Aunt Marion! It sounds
dreadful. I would rather do anything. I’d almost rather—marry—Cress.”
“My dear child, if you cared for Cress, which you don’t, you could
not marry for years. You are both far too young for even a serious
engagement, and Cress has nothing to live upon.”
“No, I forgot that,” she said mournfully. “Then you think I must go,
and there is no escape.”
“I think we shall see by-and-by,” I said. “We must not make up our
minds in a hurry. You have to find out what is really your duty.”
“My duty is to stay and take care of you all,” said Maimie
half-defiantly.
“Churton may think he needs taking care of.”
“Aunt Marion!” she sighed, in a reproachful tone.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” I said. “I can’t bear to think of losing you;
and if I followed my own feelings, the matter would be very easily
settled. But there are questions of right and wrong.”
“Yes, I know,” she said.
“I think we must wait to see what is right. We must pray to be shown.
There must be one step which is the right one to be taken. And it is of
no use for us to ask to be shown which it is, unless we are willing to
take it.”
“Whatever it is?” Maimie put in sadly.
“Yes, whatever it is. I know you long to stay, and I am sure we long to
keep you. But your stepfather has some claim on you,—some right over
you,—not so much as if you were really his own child, but still some.
We must not forget that.”
“If only mother had never married him!” whispered Maimie. “But I
shouldn’t have known you then.”
“No, we should scarcely have met, but for their marriage: certainly you
would not have come to live with us.”
“I’m glad she did,” Maimie said.
“It has all been so lovingly ordered for us up to this time,” I said,
after a little pause. “We would not undo any of it if we could, even
of what seemed trying at the time. Maimie, don’t you think we ought to
trust still our Father’s care, and to believe that He certainly will
still arrange for us as is really best?”
“That is just what I was thinking,” Cherry said.
Maimie looked seriously at me. “Yes; only things often do come as one
doesn’t like.”
“As we do not like, perhaps,” I said, “but still as is really best.
For, after all, we can’t see far with our short sight. When you first
came to live with us, neither you nor I saw the arrangement to be
‘best,’ yet we would not undo it now.”
“Wouldn’t you really?”
“Don’t you know better than to ask that question?” I said. “Maimie, I
think we must take a lesson from the past. God always deals lovingly
with His children, even when He sends things which at first they cannot
see to be best.”
“I’ll try. I will try,” said Maimie gently. “I will try to trust.”
“And not be afraid,” added Cherry.
“Yes, I’ll try. But oh, I do hope I shall not have to go back to
America with father.”
“Suppose we don’t even think of that at present, but just wait,” I
said. “It will not be yet, Maimie.”
“No, and so much might happen first,” she observed dreamily.