THE SACRIFICE.
AS Churton left the room, Maimie sprang across, and threw herself into
my arms.
“O Aunt Marion!” and she gasped for breath.
“Maimie, how could you? We cannot part with you, darling.”
“Oh, it must be. It would have come to this sooner or later. Father
will not give me up, you see. And I ought to be there,—I ought to be
there.”
“But so short a notice,” I said sorrowfully.
“That is his way of punishing me. Was I wrong to speak to him as I did?
I wish I could love him more. But don’t make me cry—don’t. I must go. O
Aunt Marion!”
“What will your Uncle say?” I asked, with a kind of stunned feeling.
“I don’t know. You will tell him all. He will understand. And perhaps
I shall only be a few days away. Father may get tired of me. I shall
be on the spot, and perhaps I can do something—perhaps. But I must not
waste time.”
She hurried upstairs, and threw her clothes into it trunk with feverish
haste.
“I shall not take much,—only enough for a visit. Things can easily be
sent or fetched. And this will always be home to me still—always. I
shall try to come very soon and see you all. But if I don’t, you will
understand. Perhaps at first he may not let me.”
I was weeping by this time, while Maimie seemed to have no tears to
shed. She only looked flushed and burdened.
“Don’t cry,” she said once or twice, coming to cling to me. “O don’t!
It has to be.”
“Maimie, I don’t think I can let you go like this.”
“But you must,” she said. “It is for Uncle’s sake, you know. I must
see if things are going wrong, and if they can be put right. And
by-and-by,—oh, it doesn’t do to look forward. We must trust for
by-and-by.”
Not too much time was allowed. Half-an-hour had scarcely passed, when
Churton’s steps sounded in the hall. Once more Maimie threw herself
upon me, clinging passionately.
“Aunt Marion, it is hard to go; but I must; it does seem right. If I
could but have seen dear, dear Uncle Robert again! And poor Jack,—you
must give my love to him. Don’t tell him a word of that—you know—what I
said to father about—about marrying.”
“No, darling,” I said; “I will not.”
“It was the only thing that really brought him to what I wanted. And it
was true, wasn’t it?”
“True that you could—perhaps—make poor Jack happy?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. It was true that more than one wants to marry
me.”
“And the other—is it not true, Maimie?”
She flushed brightly. “I don’t know,—I only said I could—I didn’t say
I would. Perhaps,—but I must not think of that now. I have to do what
father tells me. But tell Jack how sorry I am to say good-bye to him—to
you all—for a few days. Perhaps it won’t be longer. Oh, I do wish I
could thank you rightly for all your love and kindness to me.”
“Come, Maimie,” shouted Churton.
I ran downstairs first, and protested earnestly against this hurried
departure, but in vain. “The girl had taken her choice, and she should
abide by it,” Churton replied shortly. “He had no doubt she had been
put up to all this by others.” Then Maimie followed me into the hall,
and there was another good-bye, and she was gone.
And I sat alone in the parlour, desolate at heart, till Cherry came
home, and heard all. We shed many tears together.
It was harder work to tell my husband, and hardest of all to tell Jack.
I think they marvelled at me for letting Maimie go, and I marvelled at
myself,—yet what could I have done? The whole thing seemed to come like
a flash of lightning, all power being taken out of my hands.
“She is sacrificing herself for us, dear child,” Robert said, when he
and I talked the matter over. “I do not know whether we ought to allow
it—if we have power to refuse. But Churton has a certain authority over
her.”
Jack vanished for a long while that evening, and when present with the
rest of us, he scarcely spoke a word.