OUR CHILD.
I SAT down beside the bed, and drew Maimie within my arms, letting her
soft cheek rest against mine.
“Oh, that is nice,” she murmured.
“Maimie, we owe a great deal to you,” I said.
“Don’t say so, please. I could not let the wrong go on. But poor
father—it does seem sad.”
“To any one that loves him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t—much,—not real love, I mean. Only for his own sake
I am sorry. But I don’t think he will want me again.”
“He has given you up,” I said.
“Yes, I hope so. And, after all, I could do nothing for him, even if we
were together. He will not hear a word of what is right,—and I think
he would soon try to make me do wrong. He frightens me sometimes, with
things he says. Oh, he has gone downhill terribly since mother’s death.
It would be dreadful to live with him always. But I am glad I came
here.”
“It has been a happy thing for us.”
“Yes, I wanted that. I soon found out what poor father was after! How
he could!”
“Did he tell you, Maimie?”
“Father tell me! O no. Aunt Briscoe took a fancy to me the first day,
and she very soon began letting out things when we were alone. She said
my father would be angry if he knew, and I must not repeat a word. I
found she had a fancy that Uncle Robert had been rude and neglectful
to her; so the first thing I had to do was to explain that away. And
then she told me she had altered her will,—by my father’s advice. I had
to be careful in what I said, but it very soon seemed to dawn upon her
that she had been deceived, and that she was wronging Uncle Robert. She
wrote herself to Mr. Wilson about the change in the will, and he was so
quick,—much quicker than lawyers are generally. I do think he was very
glad for Uncle Robert.”
“Did it never occur to you,” I asked, “that if all had gone to your
stepfather, it might have been yours some day?”
“Aunt Marion!—what sort of a creature do you think me?” she cried.
“At all events, it will be Jack’s,” I said.
She blushed vividly, but said, “I am glad of the legacy to Jack. Aunt
Briscoe did not tell me of that. When will Jack come here?”
“I think you will come back to us first,” I said, “until we can all
be here together. I suppose it will be some little time before we can
enter into possession.”
Then Maimie told me more about Aunt Briscoe; how, under failing
strength, she had seemed to dread the future, and had craved comfort,
not knowing where to turn.
“She spoke of her husband as such a good man, Aunt Marion, and said she
was afraid she had never cared much for the things he loved best. And
I do think I was a little help to her. At first she was shy of seeing
a clergyman. I could not get her to do it, till a few days before her
death. But she let me read and talk and sing hymns to her. ‘Just as I
am,’ was her great favourite; and at last she almost knew it by heart.
I do think there was a real change in her. And she seemed so anxious to
do rightly about her money.”
“I wonder she never sent for my husband.”
“She did not dare, Aunt Marion. I think she was too weak and ill to
face my father’s anger. She told me again and again to give you her
love ‘by-and-by.’ And I think she had a feeling that it would not be
long.”
“I wonder your father never happened to hear about the lawyer’s visit.”
“There was no one to tell him. He and I were out for the day, and Aunt
Briscoe sent Maria into the city, on an errand. I suppose Maria might
have told,—father seems to have some sort of hold on her. You know he
made Aunt Briscoe send away her good old housemaid, and get this new
one instead. But she would not part with cook, even to please him,—and
cook does not like father at all. She would be sure to tell him
nothing.”
We did not talk much more of Churton, for the subject seemed to sadden
Maimie. Nor did we see him again. Later on we all had tea together; but
Churton was absent. Inquiries being made, we found that he had gone
away an hour earlier, taking two large boxes with him. No one knew
where he was gone; and he had left no message to anybody.
“So he gives you quite over to us, Maimie,” Robert said. “You are our
child now.”
It was a good while before we actually went to live at “The Gables.”
Law-business had to be settled before we might take formal possession.
Also many repairs were needed in our new home. Moreover, our old home
was on our hands for another two years; and a tenant had to be found
for it.
But by the time summer was in full swing, we made the move.
I found then that the old home was dear to my heart; but the new
promised soon to be yet dearer. Robert loved “every stick and
stone” about the place, as the saying is. The garden and the little
conservatory were a great delight to Maimie and me; but the change in
my husband’s look was a greater delight still. He seemed already ten
years younger, and was losing his burdened air.
One day, soon after we were beginning to feel really settled, Maimie
came softly into the drawing-room, carrying a rosebud in her hand, and
blushing herself like a rose. She had on her garden-hat, and I thought
how wonderfully pretty she was growing, with her black soft eyes and
her wavy flaxen hair, and the bright bloom in her cheeks.
“Aunt Marion, I’ve been gardening,” she said.
“Yes, dear,” I answered; and I knew directly that something was coming.
“Jack is there,” she said. “He has come home earlier.”
“Isn’t he well?”
“O yes; quite. It isn’t that. But he says he could not wait any longer.
It came over him all at once that he must speak. And he asked leave to
come away early for once—on business. Fancy calling that business!”
“What was the business?” I asked, smiling.
“As if you didn’t know!” she whispered, stooping to kiss me.
“He knew Cherry was away this afternoon, and he felt sure he would find
me alone in the garden.”
“Which he did. Well, Maimie, what is your answer?”
“I haven’t given him any. I told him he might ask you.”
She was starting upright, to run away, but I caught her fast.
“You must tell me what to say.”
“Anything you like.”
“I should like you to belong to my Jack.”
“Then I will,” she said.
“Only because I wish it, Maimie?”
She shook her head, smiled, and stooped for another kiss.
“If I don’t marry Jack I shall never marry anybody,” she said. “Please
tell him what you like, mother!”
And she ran away out of one door, as Jack came in at another. He looked
very hopeful, yet half puzzled. I had the joy of laying his doubts to
rest, and of telling him that at last Maimie was his own.
[Illustration: “If I don’t marry Jack I shall never marry anybody,” she
said. “Please tell him what you like, mother!”]
“My own! my very own!” he said once or twice to himself, with such a
look of happiness in his manly face. Then he stooped to kiss me, as
Maimie had done. “Mother, pray that she may never be my idol, and yet
that I may love her better every day,” he said softly.
And I think that prayer has been answered.
Three years passed before Maimie became Jack’s wife. By that time he
was getting on well enough to render the step prudent. A little house
was taken near us, and furnished chiefly with the contents of our
old home. Neither Jack nor Maimie would consent to spend any of the
thousand pounds,—Aunt Briscoe’s legacy.
By that time Cress had been home again for several months. He had grown
brown and healthy, and had shaken off his fancy for Maimie; so much so
that he made no objection whatever to being Jack’s “best man.”
Seeing a little more of the world had done Cress good in many ways.
Cherry and I found him now a pleasant companion in the house, instead
of a trouble. He was far less “self-absorbed” than of old.
On the very eve of Maimie’s wedding, she had a letter from her
stepfather. He had taken up farming in South Africa, and professed to
be doing well. He wrote in his old affectionate style, and enclosed a
present of five pounds, saying he hoped some day to come home and see
her again.
Did he think he would get Maimie once more into his power? The thought
occurred to my mind, but I put it from me. There was no need to trouble
ourselves. Maimie, as Mrs. Jack Hazel, was safe from her stepfather.
She wrote soon to thank him for his “wedding-gift,” and to tell him of
her marriage. Since then we have heard no more of Churton.
THE END.