Chapter XXIII: The Response

MAIMIE wrote and posted her letter within half-an-hour. Then she came to me, carrying a scrawled pencil-copy, which she placed in my hand.

“I thought it best not to show you the real letter before I sent it off,” she said. “Please read this, Aunt Marion.”

And I read, not without surprise:—

“DEAR FATHER,—I begin to think you have forgotten me.
It is so very long since you have been to the house.”
“I want very much to see you now—very much indeed—to
ask you a question. Please come and see me. If you
cannot come here, then I will come to you. Aunt Briscoe
cannot really be afraid of infection now. It must be
either a mistake, or a silly fancy of the servant.
If I have to come to ‘The Gables,’ I shall not let her
send me away, as she sent Jack away. Measles was really
at an end months ago.”
“The question I want to ask is about myself. Nobody
knows anything of it except myself; and nobody in the
house will read this letter before it goes off. But,
father, I must see you, please. One way or another,
I MUST.”
“I am, your affectionate daughter,”
“MAIMIE.”

“Do you think your father will like that?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said; “but it is true. I must see him. Things can’t go on like this. And the only way to bring him was to write strongly.”

“What is the question you have to ask, my dear?”

She looked at me, half sadly. “Can you wait till he comes? I’ll ask it before you, if you like. But I would rather not tell you now.”

Maimie had her own way as usual, and kept her little secret. I could have wished that the letter had been rather differently worded. However, it was gone and might not be recalled; and I would not worry Maimie by expressing my doubts more plainly, Later in the day I told my husband something of what had passed; and he and I waited curiously to see results.

Maimie was on the look-out next day. It reminded me of the time when she first came to us, and when she so eagerly watched for tidings of her stepfather. Every ring and every knock brought a flush into her face.

The morning passed thus, fruitlessly; and Maimie was growing pale with anxiety. A good part of the afternoon went in like manner. Maimie would not leave the house for a moment. Cherry had gone out to do some distant shopping. Robert and Jack were absent as usual at their work; and the younger boys were at school. Maimie and I sat alone together.

Suddenly there came a sharp knock, and again Maimie flushed and paled.

This time disappointment was not in store. The front door was opened, and immediately afterward Churton himself walked into the room.

He looked a little askance at me, I thought, and seemed relieved to find Robert absent. I noted an attempt at ease in his loud voice and would-be hearty manner.

“Well, Maimie,” he said, kissing her, “how do you do? Quite well, eh? That was a pretty imperious sort of letter you sent me yesterday, I must say! But you see I have come! What has gone wrong with you?”

“I did not say anything had gone wrong, father.”

“Something, I supposed. Or there’s something you want done. Anyway, I have come. So now you had better ask your question,—the quicker the better.”

“Presently,” Maimie said. “You will sit down and have a cup of tea first, father.”

“I don’t want tea, child. I’m dreadfully hurried,—haven’t a moment to spare.”

“You have not been to see us for a long while,” I remarked to him.

“Couldn’t possibly,—I have had too much on my hands. And I knew Maimie was all right again. Not but what she looks thin yet—thinner than she ought to be. But I’ve been busy. And the old lady has been ill; and she expects any amount of attention.”

“That is why she has not written then,” I said, and I looked at him.

“That’s why,” he answered; and his eyes roved about anywhere rather than meet mine, or so I thought.

“Is she ill now?”

“Well, she isn’t right yet,” said Churton. “Not up to visitors or letter-writing.”

“She has always wished to see us before, when she wasn’t well.”

“People change as they get older,” said Churton. “Anyhow, she seems to want to be quiet. Maimie, if you have anything to say, you had better say it quickly, for I must be off.”

“There’s plenty of time,” Maimie said quietly. I noticed with surprise that her lips were trembling.

“And I want very much to know more about Aunt Briscoe’s illness,” I added.

“It was a touch of bronchitis first, and she doesn’t get up strength after it,” replied Churton. “Plenty of time for you, perhaps, Maimie, but not for me. So if you don’t speak, I’m off. If you want to see me alone, I’ve no doubt your Aunt will excuse us;” and he made a movement as if to get up.

“No, thank you, father. I would rather a great deal that Aunt Marion should hear, only she must promise not to interrupt.”

“What! Am I to be tongue-tied, Maimie?”

“Just for a little while,” she said coaxingly. “I want to put my question in my own way, and to let father answer as he chooses.”

“That’s only fair,” Churton said; and I laughed, and promised to wait till I was appealed to. But I felt rather uneasy. Churton looked from one to the other of us, in a suspicious sort of way.

“It’s no use to look at me, Churton,” I said. “I have not the least idea what it is that Maimie means to say.”

Maimie sat facing Churton. The two were such a curious contrast. He had grown into a burly sort of man, too red in the face, and restless in manner. And Maimie was so fair and gentle, with her pale skin, and short flaxen hair, and dark eyes. She sat very still, with folded hands, while he kept up a continual fidget.

“Father, do I belong to you, or do I belong to Uncle Robert?”

The question took me by surprise, at least as much as it took Churton by surprise. I believe we both stared at her.

“What on earth is the girl driving at?” demanded Churton at length.

“It is a simple question,” Maimie said, speaking steadily, though her lips were pale. “Am I your child, or am I Uncle Robert’s child? Of course I am neither really,—but which am I to count myself?”

“I’ve not given you up, my girl,” said Churton.

“You mean that I am yours?”

“To be sure,—yes,—why not?” he asked.

“And you expect me to do as you wish about things, father,—and some day to live with you again?”

“To be sure,” he repeated.

“And meantime—all this while that I have been away from you—only you, and not Uncle Robert, have been responsible for my keep, and my education, and everything to do with me?”

Churton shuffled on his chair at this, as if he began to see whither Maimie’s “question” was tending. I sat in silent astonishment.

“I don’t suppose your uncle grudged you a shelter while I had no home to offer,” he said.

“I daresay not, father, but that has nothing to do with the question. You have never even given him the choice, whether to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ And it comes to this: if I am really your child, not his, then you and I have been robbing him for three years past.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” he said shortly. “Girls know nothing about such matters.”

“I know that you promised to pay my expenses when I left you to come to Uncle Robert.”

“Well, and haven’t I sent money?”

“Forty or fifty pounds,—for three years’ board and lodging, and nursing through two long illnesses! That—payment!” and her eyes flashed such scorn at the notion that he visibly recoiled.

“I daresay I shall be in a position some day to pay up all square,” he said.

“And until you can, I do not stay here, father.”

I had great difficulty in keeping my promise of silence. Churton shrugged his shoulders, and asked, “Where are you going?”

“To live with you,” she said.

He looked angry. “This is all nonsense, Maimie.”

“It is not nonsense,” she said calmly. “Father, you must listen to me, if you please. What I want to say is this,—that things cannot go on any longer as they have done. Uncle Robert and Aunt Marion may be willing, but I am not. I can’t go on living in a false position. It must be one thing or the other. Aunt Marion, please hush—just a little longer. I know I am right about this. Father, I mean what I say. If I am Uncle Robert’s child, then I have no more to do with you, any more than with any other mere acquaintance; and the arrangement of the last three years has been fair and right. But if I am your child, I will not live upon anybody else, and I must either live with you, or Uncle Robert must be paid for all my expenses.”

One thing was plain to me, in Churton’s face. He did not wish to give Maimie up. Whether he was jealous of her love for us,—whether he really did feel affection for her,—or whether he had schemes for the future in which he meant her to take a part,—I could not then decide. I have since been convinced that the last was the leading motive. But he did not mean to give her up.

“And suppose I say ‘No’ to both?”

“You can’t,” she answered. “I don’t want to speak as I should not; but you are not my real father, and you have not acted a father’s part; and Uncle Robert has rights as well as you. He has been a father to me. I am not going on like this any longer. I will be either his or yours. If I am Uncle’s, I am his altogether, and I stay here. If I am yours, I come to you.”

“To ‘The Gables!’ Nonsense!”

“It is not nonsense,” she said very quietly. “Aunt Briscoe once wished me to live there, and I would not. But I am willing to go now. Father, you may take me, or you may give me up. If you give me up, I know that Uncle Robert will adopt me.”

I began to understand what Maimie was aiming at. She meant to go to “The Gables,” to set things right, if possible, between Aunt Briscoe and my husband. The thought flashed upon me as I listened, and how I loved the child for her self-devotion! But could we let her go? What would Robert say? What would Jack think? Yet, if she and Churton settled it thus, had I any power to refuse my consent?

“And suppose I simply leave you alone for the present, and by-and-by claim you?” he asked roughly, as if to frighten her. “Who is to say me nay then?”

She drew up her fair head, and looked at him with a mantling blush. “I can be out of your reach then,” she said. “There is more than one who wishes to marry me.”

This shot struck. Maimie told me afterwards that she had kept it in reserve, only to be used in case of emergency.

Churton was visibly disconcerted.

“Absurd!—a chit of your age!” he said.

But from that moment Maimie had the game in her own hands.

“Well, well; we will think about it,” he said. “Perhaps the best plan would be to board you here for the present,—pay Robert so much.”

“O yes,” passed my lips.

“No,” said Maimie resolutely. “You have to pay him, father, but every pound you can spare must go to settling your debt for the past. If you gave him a cheque for one hundred pounds this minute, it would not cover all. No, father. If I am your child, I come to you for at least a visit, that we may decide together how much is already due to Uncle Robert. When that is settled, then I shall be glad enough to come back, paying my board, and making a fresh start.”

Churton sat in gloomy silence.

“But it must be decided soon one way or another,” pursued Maimie, in her soft resolute tones. “If I come to you, I come within a week from to-day; if not, then I shall feel free to decide on my own course independently.”

“You mean that you intend to marry. Who is the fellow?”

She turned scarlet, keeping her eyes on the ground.

“Well, it does not matter,” said Churton shortly. “I should not give my consent. Look here, Maimie,—as you are so bent on a point-blank decision, you shall have it. I’ll take you back with me this evening.”

She started as if with pain, and I exclaimed in distress.

“That’s enough about it,” said Churton roughly. “You’ve brought it on yourself, girl. Now you may take your choice. If you come to ‘The Gables’ at all, you come in half-an-hour.”

“‘This evening,’ you said, father?”

“This afternoon, I meant. I am going out to see somebody near, and I shall be back with a cab in half-an-hour. If you are not ready to start then, you may give up the idea of ‘The Gables.’”

“I will be ready,” she said firmly.

“Maimie, Maimie, not without your Uncle’s consent,” I entreated.

“Then, or not at all,” said Churton.

“Then,” Maimie answered in the same tone.

“I cannot give my consent,” I said.

“Nobody asked it,” said Churton. “Don’t dawdle with your packing, child. I shall be back in half-an-hour, mind.”

And he strode out of the room, fuming.