MARIA SPEAKS HER MIND.
After Maria had settled the question of duty, she went very
systematically to work to prepare for her journey. She calmly finished
ironing her curtain, hung it nicely in its place, and then swept a
satisfied look around the neatly arranged and immaculate room before
closing and locking the door to keep out all intruders during her
absence.
Then she rolled up her sleeves, and for the next three hours baked and
boiled and fried until her pantry was well stocked with substantial and
toothsome provisions for the hired man and chore-boy.
"This'll last you nigh onto two weeks, with what you can cook for
yourselves," she said to Pat, as she showed him the result of her
labors. "There's plenty of salt pork in the barrel that you can fry when
you want a change from corned beef and ham, and there's all kinds of
veg'tables in the cellar. I guess you can manage some way till I come
back, and if you get out of bread you can ask Miss Barnes to bake you
some, or you can buy it of the baker."
Her cooking out of the way and everything about the house left in the
most tidy manner imaginable, Maria packed her small trunk, arrayed
herself in a good, serviceable gown for traveling, and was driven into
New Haven in ample time to catch her train.
She made her connections in New York without any difficulty, after
having wired Clifford what hour she expected to arrive in Washington the
following morning. He was at the station to meet her when the train
rolled into it, and welcomed her most cordially; indeed, a great burden
rolled from his heart the moment he caught sight of her strong, honest
face, for he felt that she was equal to the responsibilities awaiting
her.
To her inquiries regarding the squire's condition, he replied that he
was pretty sick and had been delirious all night, but had fallen asleep
a few moments before he left him to come to her.
"Who's been taking care of him?" Maria questioned.
"Well, he has not needed much care until yesterday and last night, and
I've done what I could," Clifford modestly returned.
Then he told her about his accident and of his narrow escape from being
burned to death, although he made as light as possible of his own agency
in these matters; but Maria learned all about it later, when she had
made the acquaintance of the landlady, who could not say enough in
praise of him.
For three weeks Squire Talford was a very sick man, and even Maria found
her powers of endurance taxed to the utmost, in spite of the aid of
Clifford, who insisted upon sharing her vigils at night and doing all
that he could besides out of business hours. He pulled through, however,
though it was a hard pull; yet when he began to convalesce he mended
very rapidly.
Five weeks after Maria's arrival he was able to be up and dressed; his
appetite had returned, and he said he felt as if he had "been made over
new."
One morning, after she had served him a nice breakfast and put his room
to rights, Mrs. Kimberly seated herself directly opposite her patient,
with a very determined look on her honest face.
"Well, what is it, Maria?" the squire questioned, for he always knew
that matters of importance weighed heavily on her mind when she looked
like that.
"I've got something to tell you," she replied, and coming directly to
the point.
"I thought so. What is it? Go ahead."
"Waal, I expect you won't like it very well, but it's got to be told,"
the woman observed, and flushing slightly. "When I was cleanin' the
attic, after you left, I took that little hair trunk o' your'n up to
move it, dropped it, and smashed the lid off."
The squire started and shot a quick look at her at this.
"Of course, everything tumbled out," she pursued, "and I had to pick 'em
up and put 'em back. I suppose I don't need to tell you that I found
among the mess a box belonging to Cliff."
She glanced up as she concluded, to find that her companion had lost
some of his recently recovered color during her recital.
There was a moment of awkward silence, then the man curtly remarked:
"Well?"
"Waal, the box had come apart in the smash, and I found a lot of letters
directed to Cliff's mother and--to his father. I found, too, the papers
that told about Mis' Faxon's marriage and Cliff's christening."
"Well?" questioned the squire again as she paused, but with white lips.
"Of course, I didn't read the letters. I thought 'twas none o' my
business what was in 'em, but when I saw them certificates I made up my
mind that a burnin' wrong had been done that boy--a wrong that must be
righted, squire; so, when I got his message to come to take care o' you,
I brought that box along with me."
"You did!" exclaimed Squire Talford, in a startled tone. "What have you
done with it--have you given it to Cliff?"
"No, sir! You don't ketch Maria Kimberly doin' anything underhanded if
she knows it," responded the woman, with considerable spirit. "As long
as I found the things in your trunk, I made up my mind I'd tell you
about it first and see what you'd do before I went any farther."
"That shows your good sense and honesty, Maria," said the squire
appreciatively. "I suppose, however, you think the boy ought to have the
papers," he added thoughtfully.
"Of course I do, and that ain't all he oughter have, either," his
companion retorted, with stout-hearted frankness.
"What do you mean?" demanded the squire, with well-assumed surprise.
Maria sniffed significantly and tossed her head.
"I suppose you imagine I don't know who Cliff's father was," she said,
with a wise smile. "I suppose you think I never heard that story about
Belle Abbot, who, after she was engaged to one man, fell in love with
another and jilted the first one. But I never suspected that the man she
married was anything to you--I never heard that part of it--until just
afore I came to Washington. I was dustin' the books in that old
secretary in your bedroom, and came across that old Bible your mother
used to like because the type was so clear. I'd seen it a hundred times,
but never took any notice of the family record till that day, when I
found the same name, among a lot of others, that I saw on Belle Abbot's
marriage-certificate.
"You could have knocked me over with a feather, for I always believed
Cliff's mother married a man by the name o' Faxon--and she did, too, for
that was one of the names. I never could understand afore why you hated
the boy so; but now I see through it. You knew he didn't know anything
about his father; you pretended to be a friend to Mis' Faxon after she
came back from the West, influenced her to bind the boy to you when she
was dyin', and managed, some way, to get hold o' them papers and have
kep' 'em hid from him ever since, for you didn't mean he should ever
have his rights if you could help it."
"Don't you think you are getting pretty sharp and familiar in your talk,
Maria?" the squire demanded shortly, as she paused for breath, but the
hand that was fingering an envelope trembled visibly.
"Maybe," she coolly retorted. "I'd made up my mind that the right time
had come for some 'sharp and familiar' talk to you, and I wasn't going
to shirk my duty. I've lived with you, Squire Talford, nigh on to
eighteen years, and I've tried to do my best for you and your'n all that
time--'specially since Mis' Talford died, for I felt I owed her a lot
for the pains she took to train me; then, of course, I wanted to feel
that I earned the money you was payin' me, though I've never had a rise
in my wages. So my conscience is clear on that score, and I don't think
I've neglected anything except to speak my mind, and that I'm goin' to
make up for now, if I never set foot in the old place again.
"I've had hard work to hold my tongue in the past when you was abusin'
Cliff as you used to, and you'd no cause to hate him as you seemed to,
either. He never wronged you; he wasn't to blame for comin' into the
world the son o' the other man instead o' your'n. A better, brighter boy
never drew breath; he served you faithful as the day was long and you
treated him shameful--worse'n a slave. I used to wonder how you could
sleep nights after some o' those awful thrashin's you gave him. I never
felt meaner in my life for anybody than I did for you when you let him
go off to college without even a word o' kindness and encouragement, and
if I knew then what I know now he'd never have gone away as empty-handed
as he did."
"You are spreading it on pretty thick, Maria, and I think it is about
time you stopped," the squire here interposed, and with a face that was
now crimson with mingled anger and shame.
"Yes, I s'pose I am spreadin' it on thick," she composedly admitted,
"and I tell you I'm downright glad of the chance for once. I reckon I am
about through, though, only I'd like to ask what you propose to do for
Cliff."
"I'm not sure that I propose to do anything," was the sullen reply.
"You don't," cried Maria, bridling again, "Well, then, I do. I propose
to see that that young man gets his rights. I'm far from bein' a rich
woman, but I've saved up a plump little sum out o' my wages and Cliff
shall have every dollar of it to help him fight for his share of the
fortune that his grandmother left, and if you was clothed and in your
right mind you'd want him to have the rest of it when you're done with
it.
"What are you thinking of, Squire Talford," she went on, glowing with
indignation, "to nurse, at your time o' life, such a spite against such
a splendid fellow like Clifford Faxon--a fellow that any man might be
proud to own as a son? Haven't you any gratitude for what he's done for
you? You'd have been burned to a cinder and lyin' under them brick walls
outside, but for him; he did what precious few men would have done that
night o' the fire, to save a man he knew hated him and had abused him as
you did when he was a boy.
"And that ain't all, neither; he gave up this nice room to you and has
been sleepin' in a back room that's little better'n a closet, at the end
o' the hall, so's he could be handy to spell me when I had to rest. And
he's set up watchin' with you, night after night, just as faithful 's if
you was his own father. I could never have done it alone; for, squire,
you came mighty nigh slippin' over Jordan some o' them nights--mighty
nigh. Man alive! haven't you got any heart? What are you made of,
anyway? Waal," drawing a long breath and looking a trifle frightened as
she began to realize that she had been holding forth with more vigor
than discretion, "I guess I've said enough for now, and I'll leave you
to think it over. I've got that box in my trunk, and if you don't see
fit to do the square thing by Cliff I shall give it to him, tell him all
I know and then you an' I'll settle our accounts."
The woman arose as she concluded and walked quietly from the room,
leaving the squire to meditate, in no enviable frame of mind, upon a
situation which he had never dreamed would overtake him.
Maria did not go near him again until luncheon-time, when she carried
him a tray of daintily prepared viands that would have tempted an
epicure.
She watched him out of the corners of her eyes while she arranged his
table, and the thoughtful expression on his face appeared to afford her
an immense amount of satisfaction, for two or three times, when she
passed behind his chair, she nodded her head with a gratified air which
spoke volumes.
The man did not refer to the conversation of the morning, but there was
that in his manner and in the tones of his voice whenever he addressed
her, which assured her that he did not think any the less of her for the
stand she had taken.
She kept out of his way during most of the afternoon, also, giving as a
reason that she was going to be busy in the laundry, but at night, as at
noon, his dinner was prepared with the greatest care and nicety.
"You are a good cook, Maria," he remarked as she brought him a second cup
of coffee, the aroma of which pervaded the whole room, "and," he added
gravely, "you have proved yourself to be a tip-top nurse."
"Thank you, sir," Maria respectfully responded and flushing with
pleasure at the unusual praise; "I had a good woman to train me--Mis'
Talford made me what I am, and I'm not backward to give her the credit
of it; she was a prime housekeeper and one o' the salt o' the earth."
Whether it was this reference to his wife, or whether some other matters
were pressing heavily upon him, Maria had no means of knowing, but she
was sure she heard him sigh and saw his lips contract
spasmodically--signs of emotion which were very rare with him.
He finished his dinner in silence, but as she was about to leave the
room with his tray he suddenly inquired:
"Maria, has Cliff come in yet?"
"Yes, sir; I met him in the hall as I was bringing up that last cup of
coffee."
"Well, will you go to his door and ask him if he can spare me an hour
this evening? Say that it is a matter of importance."
"All right, sir; I'll tell him," Maria responded, but with a sudden
choking in her throat which rendered her utterance somewhat indistinct.
"And, Maria----"
"Yes, sir."
She paused with her hand upon the handle of the door, but did not look
around.
"When I ring you may bring me that box, of which you told me to-day."
"Yes, sir."
It was all she could say; then she passed out of the room, shutting the
door softly behind her, but paused in the hall to wipe away the tears
that were raining over her cheeks.