Chapter XXII: What to Do?

EARLY in February Cress left us; and I had more comfort in my boy before he sailed than in all his previous life. He seemed softened, and less full of self; and he let me speak to him loving words of advice and warning, such as generally he would not hear at all. He took away my Bible with him—the one I had used for years—and he promised faithfully to read it every day, which was a real joy to me.

Jack knew of this gift of mine to Cress. The very evening after Cress was gone, he brought to me a beautiful new Bible, bound in dark morocco, with gilt edges,—far handsomer outside than my dear old Bible, which it cost me a wrench to part with.

At first I hardly seemed to know my way about in this new Bible. Every page of the old one had its own memories, sweet or bitter, and hardly a page was without at least one chosen text, lightly marked. Here all the pages were fresh and new and unfamiliar. And yet they were familiar, for they spoke the same words. It was the same Book, the same wonderful Bible, the same message of my loving God to me. And the gift had come as a fresh token of my eldest boy’s thoughtful care for his mother.

It really did seem to Robert and myself absurd to suppose ourselves any longer in quarantine. So one day he went by train to “The Gables,” not giving any warning.

But he was not admitted. The servant—a new one—looked doubtfully at him, and said that Mr. Hazel was out, and her mistress was busy. Robert pressed her to take in his name, saying he was sure Mrs. Briscoe would see him if she knew him to be there. The girl replied rather pertly that she was sure Mrs. Briscoe would not.

Robert felt convinced from her manner that his approach to the house had been seen, and that the girl had been instructed what to say. Still, he insisted on sending a message. The girl went away, and presently returned to say that Mrs. Briscoe was sorry not to see him. She was unwell, and afraid of measles.

“Rubbish!” Jack said, when Robert told us this.

“What did you do then, father?” asked Cherry.

“The only thing I could do, my dear; I came away.” Maimie’s eyes roved from one to another, and I saw that she was deep in thought.

We wrote letters again, both to Aunt Briscoe and to Churton; but no answers came.

Jack made the next attempt. He went to “The Gables” without telling any one beforehand, and presented a sturdy front. First, he insisted on seeing Churton,—“his uncle, Mr. Hazel,” and he was informed that “Mr. Hazel was out.”

Jack did not believe the assertion, but he could not disprove it. Next, he tried hard to see Aunt Briscoe. She sent word to him that she was afraid of measles. Jack sent word to her that we had been free from measles in our house “for months.” Aunt Briscoe returned answer that she was poorly. Jack answered, through the girl, that he was very sorry, but he would not tire her or keep her long. Aunt Briscoe replied by a message that she was “engaged.” Jack sent her word that it didn’t matter; he would wait any time; might he go to the study? So at last there came a very plain message that Mrs. Briscoe refused to see her nephew, and he might go. Whereupon Jack said “Good-morning” to the servant, and walked away.

“No use staying any longer, you see,” he said, when relating to us his adventures. “One can’t exactly force one’s way in. But it is very unfortunate. The old lady has evidently taken offence at something or other.”

I looked up and saw again that thoughtful expression in Maimie’s face. She seemed lost in serious consideration.

Later in the day, when I was alone, she came to me, and said—

“Aunt Marion, what does it mean?”

“What, Maimie?” I asked; for at the moment I was thinking about Cress, not about Aunt Briscoe.

“My father staying away, and Aunt Briscoe seeing nobody,” she said.

“I don’t know. I wish I did,” was my answer.

“Is she inclined to take offence?”

“I believe so; but we have never offended her before. Nor have we done so now—knowingly.”

“You have done nothing that could rightly give offence. It is Aunt Briscoe and my father who have kept aloof from you, not you who have kept aloof from them.”

“Yes; but she is growing old, and old people often have fancies.”

“Would it matter to you if Aunt Briscoe really were seriously offended,—or if she changed? Are you so very fond of her?”

“I believe my husband loves her for the sake of old days, and for the sake of her dear old husband,” I said. “No; I am not so fond of her as I ought to be, Maimie.”

“Then it would not really matter much?”

“Not in that way.”

“But in some other way?” Maimie asked with quickness.

“It is not a thing we talk about much,” I said, after a pause. “But there is no harm in your knowing the fact. Mrs. Briscoe is very comfortably off, and my husband has always been looked upon as her probable heir.”

“I see,” Maimie said, a change passing over her face,—a look coming of sudden comprehension and fear.

“Mr. Briscoe used to speak openly of his intention to leave everything to your uncle. It would be only just. There is no nearer relative, and my husband is older than your stepfather, so he has the first right. It used to be an understood thing. But Mr. Briscoe died very suddenly, leaving everything in his wife’s hands. If he had had longer warning, I feel sure he would have arranged somehow so as to secure the money to Robert! Since his death, Aunt Briscoe has taken care to make us feel that she is at liberty to dispose of her property as she likes. And, of course, she really is free,—except that she would naturally be bound by her husband’s wishes. I have always felt that she would in the end do the right and just thing, unless we should be so unfortunate as to offend her. She has not a very happy temper.”

It seemed a relief to me to say all this, with Maimie’s earnest eyes looking into mine.

“And now you think she is offended?”

“I don’t know how else to explain the way in which she is holding off from us. But it is mysterious, for certainly there is no real cause.”

A flush rose in Maimie’s face, crimsoning the fair skin up to the roots of her hair.

“It is not mysterious,” she said in a low voice. “Father is there.”

We were both silent for a minute. Maimie turned her face away, but I could see how the flush died away, and returned with double force.

“Maimie dear, you must not trouble yourself about what can’t be helped,” I said.

She came towards me then, and flung herself down with her face on my knees.

“Oh, it seems as if I brought you nothing but harm, nothing but harm!” she cried. “And it is all my own wilfulness. If I had not been ill you would not have been away so long from ‘The Gables!’ And now I don’t know what to do.”

“Only don’t grieve, Maimie,” I whispered. Somehow none of us could ever bear to see Maimie unhappy.

“I have brought you nothing but trouble,” she moaned. “All the expense and worry; and no return. And Cress having to go away because of me. O yes, I know it has been that, though nobody says so. Cress would not have gone, if I had not been here. I didn’t see it in time, or I would have gone away myself. And Jack is unhappy too. And now there is this about Aunt Briscoe. Nothing but trouble and loss,—all through me. I don’t know how to bear it.”

I did not know how to comfort her at first. There was just so much truth in the words as to make denial of them impossible. And yet we all loved her far too well to wish that Churton had never sent her to our house.

“Maimie, hush,—you must hush,” I said at length. “You make me feel that I was wrong to speak freely to you as I did just now. These things are not in our hands; and we must not wish to choose for ourselves. It was God who gave you to us, and I always look upon you as one of His dearest gifts to me in life,—only next to my own children. You are ours, and you will be ours still, even if your father takes you away for a time.”

“But Cress!”

“Cress had to go—because of his want of self-government. That was the real reason, not his love to you. It does not seem to me that his love for you is worth much. Just a passing fancy.”

“O I am so glad you think so,” she said, with a deep sigh.

“I know my boys’ weaknesses, and I don’t underrate their faults. Cress has great faults,—still I am hopeful for his future. I do not believe he will be any the worse for two years’ absence just now.”

“I am glad you think so,” she repeated. “But now—this about father.”

“You cannot do anything there. You have not the mastery of your father’s conscience.”

“No. But you think there is something—he is making mischief, perhaps?”

“I know Churton,” I said gravely, “perhaps more truly than my husband does. I have suspected for a long while that things were going wrong.”

She pressed her hands together, and murmured, “What can I do?”

“Nothing. The whole affair is in higher Hands, Maimie; and there we must leave it.”

“But one may act—one may do,” she said eagerly. “We must pray first, of course. But if one could do anything too, it would not be wrong. If we can’t, we must only wait.”

And then she sprang to her feet with sparkling eyes.

“I know! I know! I shall write to father.”

“My dear, we have written again and again.”

“Yes; but this time I shall write. You will see!”

“What are you going to say, my dear?”

“That I must see him; and if he doesn’t come to me, I shall go to him.”

“And if he does not come—”

“I am going to write so that he will come. I shall tell him I have something to say, and must see him.”

“But, Maimie, you cannot breathe a word to him of this fancy of ours—this suspicion. I am not sure that we are right to speak of it, even to one another.”

“I shall not say the very least word of that to him. How could I? I should not dare! O no,—not to him, or to anybody. But I have something that I must say. Yes, I know now what to do.” Then she paused, with a saddened look and a sigh. “Yes, I must,” she repeated. “It is only right. If I can stop this wrong, I will. But please don’t ask me any more questions just now.”

And I did not.