Chapter III: What to Do with Her?

MAIMIE BROWNE looked steadily at me. Then she took off her hat, and the gaslight shone down upon such a head of soft flaxen hair, all curls and ripples. Was this a step towards making herself at home? Maimie pushed back some stray ripples from her forehead, and came a step nearer.

“Aunt Marion, don’t take me for an impostor,” she said. “O please do not. Indeed it is all quite true. Please don’t take me for an impostor.”

I was fairly at a loss what to say, and while I hesitated Jack burst out, “Nobody takes you for an impostor, cousin Maimie; of course it is all true!” And Cherry edged closer to me, whispering,—“Mother, shall Maimie sleep with me?”

“Really,” I found myself saying, “a little more proof seems needful. We do not know anything about your uncle’s marriage, Jack.”

“It was five years ago,” Maimie said readily. “I can show you letters which will prove everything, Aunt Marion. You will see it all,—truly you will.”

But for the first time she seemed to realise her position. A sudden flush passed over her face, and she clasped her hands.

“Oh, don’t, please don’t, send me out into those dreadful London streets. I should die there. I have no friends in England. Father made me come, though I wanted so much to stay with him. He said you would be so pleased,—indeed he did.”

It sounded very like Churton Hazel. I was obliged to admit this to myself.

Robert stepped forward, and gravely took her hand between his own. “My dear, do not be afraid,” he said. “We should not think of turning you out into the streets. But you must not be surprised that we think it right to make a few inquiries. Your stepfather has acted in a very strange manner,—in never telling us of his marriage, and in not writing about your coming. Where is he now?”

“In the States,” she said.

“Have you always lived in the States?”

“O no,—in Canada. We have lived in Canada. But he was not getting on well, and he heard of something to do in the States, and he said he couldn’t take me with him. I don’t exactly understand why. He said he must send me to you, until he could come to England for me, or else have me out to him there. And he seemed so sure that you and Aunt Marion would be pleased to have me for a few months.”

“What is your father’s present address?”

Maimie’s eyes gave a startled flash. “I don’t know,” she said. “He promised to write and tell you. He could not give me his address beforehand. I think he was going first to New York.”

“And you have travelled alone all the way from Canada?”

“Father saw me off. He put me in charge of the captain. And one of the passengers, Mr. Bowen, promised to see me to London. He had to go to Canterbury; but he put me into my cab, and I thought I was all right then.”

“How did your father know we were still living in the same house?” asked my husband. “Suppose you had found strangers here, Maimie,—what would you have done?”

There was another startled flash of the black eyes. “I don’t know. I never thought of such a thing. Father seemed so sure.”

Silence followed, and Jack said,—“Mother!” entreatingly.

I felt hard, and by no means inclined to respond. “It is an extraordinary tale altogether,” I said.

Maimie looked even paler than on first coming in. Her eyes travelled wistfully all round, and then she again pushed the wavy hair from her brow, with a faint sigh.

“I am so tired,” she said. “I wish I might sit down.”

Jack was bringing a chair instantly, and I saw him place her in it, with a look of kind and gentle encouragement. He had taken one of her little hands into his own as he did this, and the hand was kept by him. A smothered sob broke from Maimie, and Jack bent to one side, and exchanged a whisper with Owen. “Doesn’t Maimie want something to eat, mother?” asked Cherry.

I had never felt so utterly perplexed in my life, so bewildered as to my duty, so reluctant to accept an offered burden. Were we really called upon to support this stranger, thus thrust upon us? We had not enough for our own children. Yet what could be done? Cast a delicate girl, homeless and destitute, into the streets? Impossible. My heart would have been the first to cry out against that step: nevertheless it rose strongly against the only other step which seemed open.

“You had better go and cut some bread and butter downstairs,” I said coldly to Cherry. “And, boys, you may all leave us for a few minutes. Your father and I must speak with Maimie.”

Cherry and Owen obeyed at once. Cress moved slowly after them, with side glances of interest at the little flaxen head, which was drooping so gracefully, with one small hand over the eyes. The picture was very pretty, and evidently quite natural. The other hand was still in Jack’s clasp, and he stood still.

“Mother, shall I pay the cabman, and have Maimie’s trunk brought in?” he asked. “Owen says there is only one trunk. The man will be tired of waiting.”

I had it on my lips to say,—“No: let him wait a little longer.” But my husband spoke first, “Yes: do so, Jack.”

“There is nothing else to be done, I suppose,—for to-night,” I said unwillingly.

“And Maimie will sleep with Cherry?” asked Jack eagerly.

“Nothing is settled yet,” I answered, determined this time to be beforehand with Robert.

“Don’t be afraid, Maimie,” Jack said in a cheery tone, “It will all come right soon. I’m going now to see after your luggage.”

“Oh,—the cab!” she said, and drawing away her hand, she hurriedly pulled out a small purse. “Please pay him for me.”

I was glad not to be called upon for the cab fare, since our funds were very low. Jack disappeared, and Maimie’s fingers went over her eyes again. It was an attitude natural to her in distress, I found later. Robert and I exchanged looks. He signed to me to speak, and I shook my head. So then he went nearer, and sat down close beside Maimie.

“My dear,” he said.

Maimie lifted her head and looked up wildly. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t come! Oh, I do wish I hadn’t come!” she cried. “What shall I do? There’s nowhere else to go. If only I had stayed with father! He might have kept me there. I have no friends in England, nobody to care for me. Oh, if only I hadn’t come!”

“Hush, my dear; you must not be distressed. It will all be for the best. We shall see our way in time,” Robert said, in what he meant for a soothing manner. But I hardly think his words would have comforted me in Maimie’s place; and they were not successful with her either.

“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know,” she said passionately. “It is so dreadful to be where one is not wanted. I would rather go anywhere. Couldn’t I work for my living? Is there no way that girls can earn money in England? Oh, if only I had not come!”

“How old are you, Maimie?” asked my husband.

“I am fourteen,—nearly fifteen,—and I feel older. Mother’s long illness, and all the nursing, and being alone so much since, seem to have made me older. Father said it would be good for me to have a few months in England, and to be with my cousins. But if I had known—if I had guessed—I would never never have come. I would have made father take me with him.”

“Maimie, I want you to listen to me for a minute,” my husband said, in the kind of still manner he put on always when troubled. “I am afraid you think your Aunt and me unkind not to welcome you more warmly.” The flaxen head made a quick nod. “But it is not unkindness. I want you to understand this. The truth is, your stepfather has put us into a difficulty. We are poor people, and it is not easy for us to get along at any time; and our house is already overcrowded. It is not so slight a matter as you think to find room and food for another.”

“Are you poor?” asked Maimie, with an astonished look. “I thought poor people lived in cottages.”

“Perhaps if we lived in a cottage we might have more money at command,” Robert replied. “Yes, we are poor, Maimie. It is often hard work to pay our way.”

“Father was always telling me that he was ‘hard up,’” remarked Maimie. “But somehow we always had what we wanted.”

It sounded very like Churton Hazel again.

“But your stepfather had not seven children to provide for,” said my husband. “That makes a great difference. We are able to get very few things that we want.”

“Seven children!” repeated Maimie. “And while I am here it will be eight. But, Uncle Robert, my father will send money, of course. He said he would.”

“He has not even written yet,” I observed.

“Father can’t bear writing letters,” said Maimie. “He always puts off doing things that give him trouble. But he really did mean to write, and he soon will.”

My private belief was that Churton Hazel had really meant to do nothing of the kind.

“He ought not to have waited,” said Robert. “It was treating us wrongly.”

“Yes; I suppose so,” Maimie admitted reluctantly. “Only he does so hate writing. If you only knew how he hates it! Perhaps you will hear to-morrow—or next week.”

“I doubt it very much,” I said.

Maimie gazed at me with wonder.

“I do not suppose your stepfather meant to do anything more than to get you off his hands.”

The words escaped me without intention. I felt that they were wrong and unkind; wrong to be uttered, even if true, and certainly unkind to the child. Robert looked pained, and Maimie’s very lips whitened.

“It isn’t true,” she said. “Father does not want to get me off his hands. It is cruel to talk so. Father was always kind, and he never thought me a burden. I shall never never love you if you say such things, Aunt Marion,—never!”

Then, with a quick movement, her face was hidden, and she was sobbing violently.

It was rather an unpleasant moment. I was vexed, alike with myself and with Maimie. We were both at first silent, but soon my husband said—

“Maimie, that was wrong. You must not speak so.”

“Aunt Marion is cruel—cruel,” sobbed Maimie. “Poor father!”

“Hush! I cannot allow any more of this. You understand me? There is no unkindness in the question.”

Robert’s very quietness gave added force when he chose to speak with decision. Maimie lifted her head and looked at him with eyes that were half-defiant, half-beseeching.

“Father couldn’t do such a thing,” she said huskily. “Poor father! I would go back to him this moment if I could.”

The independence of tone struck me as curious. She was nearly three years younger than my submissive Cherry. I half expected an apology to myself after Robert’s rebuke; but none came.

“Mother!” Jack called at the door, “may I come in?” He entered without waiting for leave. “Cherry has tea almost ready to pour out; and I have taken Maimie’s trunk down into the basement. Cherry doesn’t know where it could stand in her room. Is everything settled, mother?”

“Nothing is settled,” I replied, “except that of course Maimie Browne must stay here for a day or two, as she has nowhere to go, until we can find other relations.”

“I haven’t any other relations. I am going to work for my living after a day or two,” Maimie said. The defiant look came again as she faced me, her colour rising and her eyes sparkling.

“Bosh!” said Jack indignantly.

My husband laid his hand on her arm. “Maimie,” he said, “you must not wilfully misunderstand us or count us unkind.”

“Not you, Uncle Robert!” and she threw herself upon him and sobbed again, with her flaxen waves of hair flowing over his shoulder. He petted and comforted her, and Jack finally led her away with an air of admiring protection.

I felt strangely icy at heart. When they were gone I took up my work, and said nothing. Neither did my husband utter a word. I think he wished to leave me time for thought, perhaps for prayer. But I was in no mood just then for looking upward.