GOING AWAY.
MY husband had a serious talk with Cress that same evening, and warned
him that nothing of the kind must ever happen again. He spoke gently
but very firmly about the evil of giving way to such anger, and of the
terrible results which might some day follow. I do not think he said
more than a few strong words, enough to impress without irritating. It
is common to crowd on far too many words in fault-finding. But Robert
happily never had that way with our boys. Just enough and no more
seemed to be his rule.
Cress listened at first sullenly, making no answer. But when Robert
said, “I think you have punished yourself with a worse punishment than
anybody else could have given you—” Cress burst out, “I don’t see that!”
“In having hurt Maimie, I mean,” Robert explained.
“It was Maimie’s own fault. What business had she to come between?”
demanded Cress.
And from that hour neither Robert nor I put any faith in the reality of
Cress’ love to Maimie.
But for the time he counted it genuine himself, and acted accordingly.
Some boys in his position might have been laughed out of a shallow
fancy such as this. Cress, however, was not one to stand being laughed
at, even if any of us had been in the mood for joking.
He did not come to me for comfort in his trouble, as Jack sooner or
later always did. Once or twice I tried to reach Cress’ feelings, and
failed. He sheered off from me at once.
During the next few days, things were, to say the least, uncomfortable.
Jack really did behave beautifully, keeping down his temper in manly
style, or rather, I should say, in Christian style. But the one word
fits in well with the other.
Jack was manly by nature; and his religion had a thoroughly manly cast
about it. Real humility and real meekness in a man are always manly.
There never was any man more nobly and fully a Man, more full of manly
dignity and courage and self-control, in all His meekness, than our
Master Himself. If only His followers took after Him more! I get out of
patience sometimes with weak complaining creatures, who seem to think
their feebleness and want of spirit means meekness. And I get just as
much out of patience with the rough coarse rudeness and brag which
tramples on everything weak, and pretends to be manliness.
Those ways are not really meek or manly. But I do think it was genuine
meekness and manliness together when my Jack stood still, in his
strength, held by Maimie’s slight hands, while Cress struck at him,
and he made no effort to defend himself,—Cress, whom he could have
mastered in an instant. And I do think it was true manly and Christian
meekness again, when Jack went in and out without a sign of anger or
disdain towards Cress—though he had cause enough for anger, not so much
in the treatment of himself as in the treatment of Maimie, whom he so
passionately loved.
Did Maimie begin to value more what he felt towards her? I asked myself
this question often, and could not be sure as to the answer; only her
manner towards him was certainly different after the day of Cress’
outbreak. It became more shy, yet more confiding. She seemed to turn to
Jack constantly for help or advice, without knowing that she did so.
Towards Cress she showed no annoyance, any more than Jack did; but she
treated him with a quiet distant politeness, and allowed him to do
nothing for her. Cress chafed under this. I was afraid one day that a
struggle would begin again between the brothers. Maimie had asked Jack
to mend a little box for her, and he gladly undertook it. Cress pushed
forward in his old style, and said, “Let me, Maimie.”
“I have asked Jack,” she said.
“That doesn’t matter, I’ll do it better than Jack can.”
“I don’t want it better. Jack’s workmanship is good enough for me.”
“Thank you, Maimie,” Jack said.
“Jack is not going to do this,” Cress said wrathfully.
And I was going to interfere; but I saw that there was no need. Maimie
gave one look at Jack, and then turned her eyes full upon Cress, with
a kind of dignified reproach. As she did so, she drew up the sleeve of
her right arm, and showed the large bruise there, becoming now a cloud
of purple and yellow.
“You don’t mean to say you haven’t forgiven me that yet,” Cress said
testily.
“You have never asked me to forgive you.”
“It was a mere accident. If you had not come between—”
“Yes. But a gentleman always begs pardon for even the merest accident,
which this was not,” she said, in a marked manner.
“It was an accident, Maimie.”
“It was temper, Cress.”
Cress flung himself out of the room in a pet, and did not appear again
for a good while. Maimie looked thoughtful after his departure. “Cress
is very rude and disagreeable,” she said at length. “He wants setting
to rights. But perhaps I am not the best person to do it.”
“He will stand more from you than from anybody,” Cherry remarked.
“No, I think not. I think that the less I have to do with Cress the
better, just now.”
That same evening, when I was alone in my room, Cress tapped and
entered. He had on his gloomy look—a look which far too often spoilt
his otherwise handsome face. I was mending a shirt of my husband’s, and
I stood beside the dressing-table, needle in hand. Cress flung himself
into a chair, and said—
“Mother, I want to go away.”
My heart sank low; for Cress, with all his faults, was very dear to
me; and I had counted on keeping him at home for many years. I do not
think mothers love their children less on account of their faults;
and perhaps it is only mothers of whom this can be said. Unrestrained
tempers, selfish and unpleasant ways, do chill the love of husbands and
wives, of sisters, brothers, and friends; but, as a rule, not the love
of mothers.
“Go where, Cress?” I asked, though in a moment I seemed to understand
what he had in his mind.
“I don’t care. Anywhere, so long as it is away from here. I’m sick
of home. I can’t stay any longer, and see Jack go on as he does with
Maimie.”
“I do not really think you have any just cause of complaint with Jack.”
“Oh, Jack is perfect, of course,—never does wrong, and never did! That
does not touch the question. Maimie likes him best.”
I made no answer. Cress turned more fully towards me, repeating in a
fierce tone, “Maimie likes him best.”
“Yes, I think she does,” I said. “And I do not wonder. It is partly
your own fault. Why do you not behave differently?”
“Behave differently! I behave as I choose,” Cress answered; and the
tone was the rudest he had ever addressed to his mother.
“If that is the way you are going to speak to me, we had better not
discuss the subject any longer,” I said coldly.
I think there was a moment’s struggle, and then he said, with a manner
of half apology, “I didn’t mean to vex you, mother. But, you see, I’m
not Jack; and I never shall be. If I could, I wouldn’t.”
“There are great differences between you and Jack,” I said. “One great
difference is that Jack’s first wish is to serve God; and your first
wish is—I am afraid—only to gratify yourself.”
Was it wise to speak so plainly? I hardly know. The words came out
under a sudden impulse.
“Oh, of course, he is all good, and I’m all bad. But anyway, things
can’t go on like this. I mean to go away.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’ve told you. I can’t keep smooth with that fellow, if Maimie really
likes him best. And I suppose she does. She said so, and she shows it
in her manner, plain enough.”
“‘That fellow!’ Your own brother, Cress!”
“It doesn’t matter what he is called. Mother, if I stay here, I can’t
keep straight with him. You and father had better let me go.”
“For how long?” I asked in distress.
“Any time. It doesn’t signify to me. The longer the better.”
I would not take up the idea seriously then, and tried to put it aside.
But Cress brought it forward again and again, persistently, day after
day. He said he was sick of London, and sick of home; and he wanted
to see the world. After a while Robert and I began to feel that it
might really be best. The constant strain between the two brothers
was unsafe. Anything seemed better than to risk an open and permanent
breach.
So Robert consulted with his and Cresswell’s employers, explaining how
things stood, and asking their advice. He was most kindly met. They
were just wanting to send out a young man to India on business, and
they thought Cress might do. He was young, and a little disposed to
laziness, they said, but hitherto he had on the whole proved capable
and trustworthy. So they were willing to make trial of him in this new
capacity.
The matter was quickly settled. Cress seemed delighted with the
proposal; and very soon his mind was so full of coming travels, that he
seemed quite to lose sight of his trouble about Maimie and his anger
with Jack. Nothing was to be heard from him but talk about his outfit,
his ship, his future tiger-hunts, and so on. Very short time was
allowed for preparation, and perhaps this was so much the better.
Had my husband deferred speaking one day longer to his employers, it
would have been too late; for the vacant post would have been filled
up. As time went on, I felt thankful that the “one day longer” had not
been allowed to pass. Much as I felt parting with Cress, I could not
but see the plan to be a wise one.
All this while we heard no news of Aunt Briscoe. It seemed very
extraordinary, and puzzled us much. I wrote again and again, but no
answer came. Churton too seemed to have disappeared out of our life,
neither calling nor sending a word by post. Without leave we dared not
go to “The Gables.” Aunt Briscoe might not yet consider us safe.
“The truth is, Robert, mischief is going on there,” I said one day,
breaking out with a thought which had long been in my mind.
“What sort of mischief?” Robert asked.
“Churton is gaining an influence over Aunt Briscoe’s mind, for his own
ends. Perhaps he is setting her against us.”
“My dear, that is rather a wild supposition.”
“I don’t see it. A quarrel between her and us would be to his
advantage.”
“There can’t well be a quarrel all on one side.”
“No. But he might turn her against us.”
“Why should he?”
“For selfish ends,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation.
Robert did not seem to understand, and I grew impatient.
“Can’t you see, Robert? She has property, and Churton would not mind a
little more money than he has.”
“Perhaps nobody would. But I wouldn’t be suspicious,” Robert said
gravely. Yet it seemed to me from his manner that the same idea had
occurred to him before.
“What if it is more than a mere suspicion?” I asked.
“We have no real grounds for supposing anything of the kind. Churton is
always indolent about writing; and Aunt Briscoe is always nervous about
infection. This illness has unfortunately kept us all apart for a long
while; but quarantine cannot be kept up much longer. It has reached
already to an absurd extent. When we are in and out again at ‘The
Gables,’ all will come right.”
“I am not so sure,” I said.