Chapter XIX: Measles

THINGS went on quietly for some weeks; Maimie still one of us; Churton sleeping near at hand, in and out often, but apparently in no hurry to come to any sort of decision. Weeks passed thus, and I began to think the winter would see no change. Churton showed some signs of softening, and fitting in rather better with our ways. He was proud of Maimie. I do not know whether he was what I should call fond of her. It often seemed to me as if he were capable of real fondness for nobody except himself.

Sometimes I thought it a little strange how Maimie’s old feelings towards him had changed. Kind as he might be,—and he really did show marked kindness to her,—she clung to us, and distrusted Churton. I suppose the childish dependence on him had been once so thorough, and had received so complete a shake by his long neglect, that there was no bringing it back. “He doesn’t really care for me,” she said frequently to Cherry. “But I’m afraid he does mean to take me away from Aunt Marion.”

In the midst of all this, Ted suddenly sickened with the measles.

I did not think much of it at first, little dreaming what a long winter of nursing lay before me.

Churton at once stopped coming. He said he had never had measles, and measles at his age might be serious; also Aunt Briscoe dreaded infection, and if he came in and out of our house he might not go to hers. This was the first inkling we had of how he frequented “The Gables.” Aunt Briscoe had grown reserved in her letters of late, and rarely mentioned his name.

My husband asked Churton whether he would not think it best to take Maimie at once for a few weeks away from the infection, since she had never had the complaint. But he said, “No; it was too late. Maimie might have caught the illness already—as likely as not—and she had better stay and be nursed by us.”

It was only for Maimie’s sake that the suggestion had been made. We were glad enough to keep her.

I was quite determined, however, that she should not run needlessly into the way of infection. Measles generally is a slight enough complaint; but Maimie was delicate, and I wanted to keep her well. Maimie resisted, yet for a time she gave way, and was in quarantine.

When Ted was getting well, Bob sickened. I counted my three elder ones safe, for they had all had measles in childhood. But strange to say, Cherry took it again. She would not believe herself to be sickening for measles, and went about as usual, and had a chill, which checked the rash. For some days she was really ill.

By that time my hands were more than full, and I was getting knocked up. I still forbad Maimie to go near the invalids, though she begged and entreated, even with tears, to be allowed; and my husband thought I might yield. If she were disposed to take the infection, he believed she would take it in spite of precautions.

I held to my own plan for a day or two longer. Then one evening I was very poorly. Maimie did all she could for me, and presently, with a resolute face, she walked out of the room. When she came back, it was to say, “Aunt Marion, I have seen them.”

“Seen who?” I asked.

“Cherry and the boys. I’ve been to them. I must help you, and I don’t believe I shall catch the measles. It isn’t my way to take infection easily. And I thought I would settle the matter by going in without your leave. So now it is no use keeping me away from them any longer; and if I were to be ill, you wouldn’t blame yourself.” Then with wistful looks she added, “Say you forgive me.”

Sorry as I was, I did not know how to be angry. The girl’s eagerness to help sprang so entirely from loving and unselfish motives. Better that a hundred times, I thought, than to have her like Churton, bent only on taking care of herself. Yet when, an hour or two later, she said anxiously, “Do you really think I was wrong?” I answered, “Not right, Maimie.”

“But I can’t be sorry,” she said. “It does make me so happy to help you.”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “It is all your love for me; and the wish to help is all right. But obedience would have been more right.”

She gave me a kiss and turned away, half smiling, half sighing.

It really did seem for a while as if Maimie would escape. The two little boys were well again, and Cherry was out of her room, only rather pulled down still. We were beginning to talk about soon being safe people for friends to visit.

And then Maimie seemed unwell; and she had a heavy cold; and suspicious signs appeared. The doctor one day looked doubtful; and next day he came again and ordered her to bed; and the third day we knew that measles once more was in full swing.

“O dear, I am sorry,” Maimie said in distress. “It will just give trouble to everybody. But please don’t stay in my room, Aunt Marion. I’ll just do as I’m bid, and keep quiet and warm for three or four days; and I dare say it will soon go off.”

Privately I feared she might be in for a worse attack than she expected. Maimie was a feverish subject. And my fear proved only too well grounded.

Not one of the others—not even Cherry—had suffered as she did; and certainly none had been more patient. Somehow, though we had been careful of her from the first, and though we knew of no direct chill, the rash would not come out properly, and fever ran high. We could not leave her alone at night, for she was often wandering.

Churton came to the front door now and then to ask questions; but he would not step inside. He said it was “unnecessary” and “best not.”

I told him one day that Maimie was very very ill; and the doctor thought she might not get over it. He said, “Poor little woman! I can’t think how in the world you managed to get measles into your house!”—as if that were our fault.

I said, “Will you not wish to see her, Churton, if she is taken worse?”

He was standing three or four yards off from me, and looked by no means inclined to fall in with my suggestion.

“Well—no—I don’t see any use.” he said. “I couldn’t do her any good by coming. And the old lady would not like it.”

“You need not call at ‘The Gables’ the same day, after seeing Maimie,” I said.

“Well—no,” Churton answered again. “But it isn’t exactly a matter of calling. I’m staying there just now. It seems a comfort to Aunt Briscoe. And of course I feel bound to consult her feelings.”

“You have not told us that before,” I said.

“Didn’t I? How stupid of me! I’ve only been there a—well, a few days. Last week, wasn’t it? I suppose I forgot. You and I don’t see much of one another just now—that’s the fact.”

“Then if Maimie were worse—if she were even dying,” I said, “you would not come to her?”

“Well, I don’t really see much good,” he said hesitatingly. “I’m not a hand at sick people, and I don’t like scenes. And, after all, it’s adding to risks of infection; and one has no business to spread things.”

“And if she should ask for you, Churton?”

“Oh, she won’t; there’s no fear. The girl’s changed, and doesn’t care for me. Not that I mean to give her up—if—but still—”

And Churton went off, while I returned to Maimie’s side, musing on the selfishness of the man.

One day, when very ill, Maimie said sadly, “I am so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, darling?” I asked.

“My wilfulness. It was wrong,” she said. “I see that now. I was right to want to help you; but I ought not to have taken my own way.”

“It was lovingly meant, Maimie.”

“Yes; but it was choosing my own way. You had forbidden me, and disobedience couldn’t be right. I have brought all this on myself.”

“You might have caught the measles anyhow.”

“O yes, I might; I know that. And then I should have known it was God’s sending; but now I know I brought it on myself. So good of you all not to reproach me.”

“Maimie, you must not let the thought be a trouble to you,” I said.

“No,” she answered at once, with a smile. “O no; because I think I did mean rightly at the moment. And I have prayed; and the Lord Jesus will forgive, won’t He? Because He is faithful and just to forgive us’—you know.”

“Faithful according to His promises,” I said softly.

“Yes—promises. He has promised all who come to Him, I needn’t be afraid. Aunt Marion, if I shouldn’t get better, you will know that,—you will know that He is my Saviour—my own Saviour.”

“It is such a happy thing to be able to say so,” I whispered.

“Yes; oh, He is; I know He is. But I don’t feel impatient now, as I once did. I have such a dear home. Only if I must leave my home, I would rather not leave it to live with father.”

“We mustn’t be bent upon choosing for ourselves,” I said.

“No; to be willing, whatever God sends,” she said earnestly, and she clasped her hands. “Well, I think I am willing. I do want not to be wilful. That has always been my fault; and it brings punishment sometimes.”

Then she was tired, and said no more. We had such little talks now and then; she seemed not to mind what she said to me.

Poor Jack! I hardly know how he got through those long days of anxiety. It was bad enough for Cherry and me, though we could at least be with Maimie, and could feel that we were doing something for her. But Jack, outside the room, and obliged to be for hours away in the city, giving his mind to work,—poor Jack was sorely tried.

There came days soon when talking on Maimie’s part was impossible, and anxiety was at its height. Inflammation of the lungs set in, and Maimie was so ill that we almost despaired of her recovery. Measles had now passed into another kind of illness; and it did seem to me as if there could be very little risk of infection for a man of Churton’s age. But Churton did not see it so at all. He said she was in the same room still, and he saw no use in running a venture; and he came less and less often to the house to make inquiries.

At last the worst was over, and Maimie began to improve, slowly, and not steadily. Days grew into weeks, and better times were followed by relapses. From the time when Maimie first sickened, it was ten weeks before she could leave her room; and then Jack carried her downstairs as if she had been a baby, she had grown so wasted and light.