A TELEGRAM.
A SMALL three-cornered note lay on my hand, and outside it was written—
“For Aunt Marion. PRIVATE.”
My husband sat down, and I read it, first a few words to myself, then
aloud all through to Robert.
“DEAR Aunt MARION,—I am so sure somebody
will come soon from home to see me, that I
shall have a letter ready to send, on the
first opportunity.”
“This is to be a private letter, only for
yourself and Uncle Robert; so now I can write
freely.”
“My father does not seem to wish that I
should write by post. I have no stamps or
money, and he will not give me any. When I
asked him he said it was nonsense, and he
did not want a constant gossip kept up
between the two houses. But I do not think
I shall be wrong to send this. I want you
so much to know why I do not write
regularly, and then you will not be pained.”
“My father is not unkind, only he is sharp,
and makes me do exactly what he wishes. He is
so unlike what I remember him in America.”
“Aunt Briscoe seems fond of him, and yet
half-afraid. But she talks as if Uncle Robert
had offended her dreadfully. I tried
yesterday to find out what he had done, and she
became confused, and said she couldn’t recall
particulars, her memory was so weak.”
“I am sure my right place is here just now.
She is very good to me, and I may be able
by-and-by to put things more right, only I
have to set to work very carefully.”
“I miss you all so terribly. It can never
be home, away from you. I long to be back.
But you must not be anxious, for I am well
cared for.”
“I am writing very small, to get in as
much as possible. And now I do not know how
to stop. I do wonder what Uncle Robert and
Jack thought of my sudden flight. I don’t
send a message to Jack and Cherry, because
I don’t think you will show them this.
It might be best not to speak of it even.
I am so afraid of my father hearing that I
have written. And yet—I cannot think I am
wrong to write.”
“Ever your loving child,” “MAIMIE.”
And that was all. A tear seemed to have fallen and blotted the name. We
did as Maimie wished, and said nothing about my letter.
A month passed from that day, and Maimie had not once been to see us,
had not once written by post. Robert and I understood; and Cherry’s
confidence in Maimie was never shaken. But Jack looked often very
unhappy. I began to think at last that I would tell him of the letter I
had had.
Then suddenly, one day, when we were all sitting at early dinner on
Saturday, my husband and Jack being at home, there came a telegram.
Robert opened it with nervous fingers, and I saw Jack’s ruddy face turn
pale. I think we all fancied at the moment that it meant ill news of
our Maimie.
“From Churton,” Robert said; and he read aloud: “‘Aunt B. died this
morning; paralytic stroke last night; unconscious to the last.’”
A silence fell upon us. No one seemed to know exactly what to say.
My husband looked really grieved; but it was impossible that much of
real affection should be felt by most of us for the poor old lady; and
Jack’s face told of relief. It had been a very different matter when
her dear tender-hearted old husband had died. That was a loss to us
indeed.
“I must go this afternoon,” Robert said presently.
“Shall I come with you, Robert?” I asked. The question came from a
sudden impulse, arising, I am afraid, more out of a wish to see Maimie
than aught else.
“I don’t know why you should not.”
He went out of the room troubled and sad. Jack said, “I am only
astonished that Uncle Churton took the trouble to send a telegram at
all.”
“Perhaps Maimie made him,” said Cherry.
“I doubt if Maimie has much power to make him do anything. More likely
he has a motive of his own.” Then turning to me, Jack asked very
softly, “Mother, who will have it all?”
“No one knows,” I said.
“Not Uncle Churton, I hope.”
“I hope not. But we cannot tell yet.”
A little later Robert and I started together. I do not think we two had
ever been to “The Gables” in company, since that time when we went to
consult Aunt Briscoe about Maimie’s sudden arrival from America. And
now Maimie and her stepfather were both at “The Gables;” and poor Aunt
Briscoe—was not there.
I fancied Churton would be amazed to see us come in; but he was not. He
seemed cordial and cheerful. “He feels sure of his ground, and thinks
all is settled now,” flashed across my mind. I do not know whether
Robert had the same thought. But it did seem strange to see Churton
so cheerful, in that house of death, with its closed blinds. Robert
looked depressed; and I felt sad and subdued; while Churton spoke in
his loud voice, never attempting to lower it, and invited us into the
drawing-room, and gave himself the airs of hospitable owner of the
house.
“Churton expects to have all this,” I said in a low voice to my
husband, when he went away to call Maimie.
“Evidently,” Robert answered. “He probably has good grounds for his
expectation.”
Then Maimie entered quietly, followed by her stepfather. She looked
very pale, and her eyes were red with tear-shedding. “Aunt Briscoe was
so good to me,” she said softly, as if in excuse for herself; and she
sat holding my hand, with her fair head down on my shoulder. “Just like
mother and daughter!” Churton said, in a sneering manner.
However, he sent for tea, and talked persistently, allowing us no
chance of quiet conversation with Maimie. Aunt Briscoe had long been
poorly and broken, he said; but the final stroke of paralysis had come
suddenly,—unexpectedly, in fact. The doctor had been summoned, but
nothing could be done. She had never been conscious again, and had sunk
in the early morning. He would have telegraphed the night before, had
it not been so late, knowing the interest we all felt in the old lady.
Then he went on to name the day of the funeral. He asked Robert and
Jack to be present, and me too, if I liked. “Not that it matters much,”
he said. “But no doubt there will be small remembrances to some of
us, whatever she may have done with the bulk of her possessions. She
was quite free, as we all know. The poor old body wasn’t over-liberal
with her gifts while she was alive; but most people are willing to be
generous in their wills. Well, we shall see, after the funeral. No use
to go into the question.”
I disliked extremely the manner in which he spoke; and I saw Maimie’s
eyes fixed on him gravely.
Churton evidently did not intend that we should see Maimie alone that
afternoon. I longed for at least five minutes’ chat in private; but I
could not see how to bring it about, and Maimie made no effort. She
was only sad and submissive. Yet now and then I noticed a satisfied
expression in her face—an expression as of one who had set herself to
do something, and had done it.
Robert asked Churton as to his future plans; and Churton said
carelessly—
“Really, I don’t know yet. Either settle down in England, or go back
to America. It isn’t easy to come to a decision; but I shall have to
decide soon. Maimie doesn’t seem to care for the thought of America. I
believe there’s some young fellow in England she has a hankering after.
But I tell her it’s no earthly use, unless he has money. She ought to
do well for herself, with that face and air. I’m not going to have her
throw herself away on some penniless city clerk.”
A hit at my husband this, and I knew it. But Robert heard quietly; and
Maimie’s downcast face did not even blush.
The interview over, Robert and I went home, and had much to tell Cherry
and Jack.
“Mother,” Jack said wistfully that evening, “do you think there is any
more hope for me now—with Maimie?”
I had never told him anything which I knew Maimie herself would not
wish to have repeated. But after some thought, I said, “I think there
may be a little more hope for you, Jack, perhaps, so far as Maimie
herself is concerned—”
“O mother!” he said, in rapture.
“But other difficulties are increased,” I said.
“What difficulties?”
“Uncle Churton—”
“Oh, that is nothing. That doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, if only
Maimie herself could be willing—”
“We must have patience,” I said. But I too felt hopeful, even while
seeing difficulties ahead more clearly than Jack did.
On the day appointed for the funeral; Robert and I went—not Jack. He
could not well get leave of absence that day from his work; and on the
whole we were not sorry. It was better that Churton should not yet know
his desires with regard to Maimie; and Jack would hardly have failed to
betray himself.
The funeral took place in strict accordance with directions in the old
lady’s will, at a distant cemetery. I had hoped to be able to keep
Maimie from attending it, and to remain behind with her for a private
interview. But Churton was bent upon Maimie’s presence in the cemetery,
and she made no effort to resist his wish, or to farther mine. Did she
really not care for being with me, much as I was longing to have her
for awhile to myself? I grew perplexed, and even a little jealous.
However, as Maimie went, I went also. And the quiet solemn service
seemed to help and calm me,—only Churton’s loud voice grated on my ears.
On our return we expected the reading of the will to take place
immediately. But Churton insisted on luncheon first. He overruled
everybody’s wishes, and had things his own way.
The lawyer was an old friend of Mrs. Briscoe, and we had known him
many years—a silent grey-haired man. When at length luncheon was over,
and we were all gathered together in the drawing-room, he put on his
spectacles, made one or two introductory remarks, and then slowly read
the will aloud.