Chapter XXI: Going Away

MY husband had a serious talk with Cress that same evening, and warned him that nothing of the kind must ever happen again. He spoke gently but very firmly about the evil of giving way to such anger, and of the terrible results which might some day follow. I do not think he said more than a few strong words, enough to impress without irritating. It is common to crowd on far too many words in fault-finding. But Robert happily never had that way with our boys. Just enough and no more seemed to be his rule.

Cress listened at first sullenly, making no answer. But when Robert said, “I think you have punished yourself with a worse punishment than anybody else could have given you—” Cress burst out, “I don’t see that!”

“In having hurt Maimie, I mean,” Robert explained.

“It was Maimie’s own fault. What business had she to come between?” demanded Cress.

And from that hour neither Robert nor I put any faith in the reality of Cress’ love to Maimie.

But for the time he counted it genuine himself, and acted accordingly. Some boys in his position might have been laughed out of a shallow fancy such as this. Cress, however, was not one to stand being laughed at, even if any of us had been in the mood for joking.

He did not come to me for comfort in his trouble, as Jack sooner or later always did. Once or twice I tried to reach Cress’ feelings, and failed. He sheered off from me at once.

During the next few days, things were, to say the least, uncomfortable. Jack really did behave beautifully, keeping down his temper in manly style, or rather, I should say, in Christian style. But the one word fits in well with the other.

Jack was manly by nature; and his religion had a thoroughly manly cast about it. Real humility and real meekness in a man are always manly. There never was any man more nobly and fully a Man, more full of manly dignity and courage and self-control, in all His meekness, than our Master Himself. If only His followers took after Him more! I get out of patience sometimes with weak complaining creatures, who seem to think their feebleness and want of spirit means meekness. And I get just as much out of patience with the rough coarse rudeness and brag which tramples on everything weak, and pretends to be manliness.

Those ways are not really meek or manly. But I do think it was genuine meekness and manliness together when my Jack stood still, in his strength, held by Maimie’s slight hands, while Cress struck at him, and he made no effort to defend himself,—Cress, whom he could have mastered in an instant. And I do think it was true manly and Christian meekness again, when Jack went in and out without a sign of anger or disdain towards Cress—though he had cause enough for anger, not so much in the treatment of himself as in the treatment of Maimie, whom he so passionately loved.

Did Maimie begin to value more what he felt towards her? I asked myself this question often, and could not be sure as to the answer; only her manner towards him was certainly different after the day of Cress’ outbreak. It became more shy, yet more confiding. She seemed to turn to Jack constantly for help or advice, without knowing that she did so.

Towards Cress she showed no annoyance, any more than Jack did; but she treated him with a quiet distant politeness, and allowed him to do nothing for her. Cress chafed under this. I was afraid one day that a struggle would begin again between the brothers. Maimie had asked Jack to mend a little box for her, and he gladly undertook it. Cress pushed forward in his old style, and said, “Let me, Maimie.”

“I have asked Jack,” she said.

“That doesn’t matter, I’ll do it better than Jack can.”

“I don’t want it better. Jack’s workmanship is good enough for me.”

“Thank you, Maimie,” Jack said.

“Jack is not going to do this,” Cress said wrathfully.

And I was going to interfere; but I saw that there was no need. Maimie gave one look at Jack, and then turned her eyes full upon Cress, with a kind of dignified reproach. As she did so, she drew up the sleeve of her right arm, and showed the large bruise there, becoming now a cloud of purple and yellow.

“You don’t mean to say you haven’t forgiven me that yet,” Cress said testily.

“You have never asked me to forgive you.”

“It was a mere accident. If you had not come between—”

“Yes. But a gentleman always begs pardon for even the merest accident, which this was not,” she said, in a marked manner.

“It was an accident, Maimie.”

“It was temper, Cress.”

Cress flung himself out of the room in a pet, and did not appear again for a good while. Maimie looked thoughtful after his departure. “Cress is very rude and disagreeable,” she said at length. “He wants setting to rights. But perhaps I am not the best person to do it.”

“He will stand more from you than from anybody,” Cherry remarked.

“No, I think not. I think that the less I have to do with Cress the better, just now.”

That same evening, when I was alone in my room, Cress tapped and entered. He had on his gloomy look—a look which far too often spoilt his otherwise handsome face. I was mending a shirt of my husband’s, and I stood beside the dressing-table, needle in hand. Cress flung himself into a chair, and said—

“Mother, I want to go away.”

My heart sank low; for Cress, with all his faults, was very dear to me; and I had counted on keeping him at home for many years. I do not think mothers love their children less on account of their faults; and perhaps it is only mothers of whom this can be said. Unrestrained tempers, selfish and unpleasant ways, do chill the love of husbands and wives, of sisters, brothers, and friends; but, as a rule, not the love of mothers.

“Go where, Cress?” I asked, though in a moment I seemed to understand what he had in his mind.

“I don’t care. Anywhere, so long as it is away from here. I’m sick of home. I can’t stay any longer, and see Jack go on as he does with Maimie.”

“I do not really think you have any just cause of complaint with Jack.”

“Oh, Jack is perfect, of course,—never does wrong, and never did! That does not touch the question. Maimie likes him best.”

I made no answer. Cress turned more fully towards me, repeating in a fierce tone, “Maimie likes him best.”

“Yes, I think she does,” I said. “And I do not wonder. It is partly your own fault. Why do you not behave differently?”

“Behave differently! I behave as I choose,” Cress answered; and the tone was the rudest he had ever addressed to his mother.

“If that is the way you are going to speak to me, we had better not discuss the subject any longer,” I said coldly.

I think there was a moment’s struggle, and then he said, with a manner of half apology, “I didn’t mean to vex you, mother. But, you see, I’m not Jack; and I never shall be. If I could, I wouldn’t.”

“There are great differences between you and Jack,” I said. “One great difference is that Jack’s first wish is to serve God; and your first wish is—I am afraid—only to gratify yourself.”

Was it wise to speak so plainly? I hardly know. The words came out under a sudden impulse.

“Oh, of course, he is all good, and I’m all bad. But anyway, things can’t go on like this. I mean to go away.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’ve told you. I can’t keep smooth with that fellow, if Maimie really likes him best. And I suppose she does. She said so, and she shows it in her manner, plain enough.”

“‘That fellow!’ Your own brother, Cress!”

“It doesn’t matter what he is called. Mother, if I stay here, I can’t keep straight with him. You and father had better let me go.”

“For how long?” I asked in distress.

“Any time. It doesn’t signify to me. The longer the better.”

I would not take up the idea seriously then, and tried to put it aside. But Cress brought it forward again and again, persistently, day after day. He said he was sick of London, and sick of home; and he wanted to see the world. After a while Robert and I began to feel that it might really be best. The constant strain between the two brothers was unsafe. Anything seemed better than to risk an open and permanent breach.

So Robert consulted with his and Cresswell’s employers, explaining how things stood, and asking their advice. He was most kindly met. They were just wanting to send out a young man to India on business, and they thought Cress might do. He was young, and a little disposed to laziness, they said, but hitherto he had on the whole proved capable and trustworthy. So they were willing to make trial of him in this new capacity.

The matter was quickly settled. Cress seemed delighted with the proposal; and very soon his mind was so full of coming travels, that he seemed quite to lose sight of his trouble about Maimie and his anger with Jack. Nothing was to be heard from him but talk about his outfit, his ship, his future tiger-hunts, and so on. Very short time was allowed for preparation, and perhaps this was so much the better.

Had my husband deferred speaking one day longer to his employers, it would have been too late; for the vacant post would have been filled up. As time went on, I felt thankful that the “one day longer” had not been allowed to pass. Much as I felt parting with Cress, I could not but see the plan to be a wise one.

All this while we heard no news of Aunt Briscoe. It seemed very extraordinary, and puzzled us much. I wrote again and again, but no answer came. Churton too seemed to have disappeared out of our life, neither calling nor sending a word by post. Without leave we dared not go to “The Gables.” Aunt Briscoe might not yet consider us safe.

“The truth is, Robert, mischief is going on there,” I said one day, breaking out with a thought which had long been in my mind.

“What sort of mischief?” Robert asked.

“Churton is gaining an influence over Aunt Briscoe’s mind, for his own ends. Perhaps he is setting her against us.”

“My dear, that is rather a wild supposition.”

“I don’t see it. A quarrel between her and us would be to his advantage.”

“There can’t well be a quarrel all on one side.”

“No. But he might turn her against us.”

“Why should he?”

“For selfish ends,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation.

Robert did not seem to understand, and I grew impatient.

“Can’t you see, Robert? She has property, and Churton would not mind a little more money than he has.”

“Perhaps nobody would. But I wouldn’t be suspicious,” Robert said gravely. Yet it seemed to me from his manner that the same idea had occurred to him before.

“What if it is more than a mere suspicion?” I asked.

“We have no real grounds for supposing anything of the kind. Churton is always indolent about writing; and Aunt Briscoe is always nervous about infection. This illness has unfortunately kept us all apart for a long while; but quarantine cannot be kept up much longer. It has reached already to an absurd extent. When we are in and out again at ‘The Gables,’ all will come right.”

“I am not so sure,” I said.