Chapter IV: The Packet of Letters

THIS silence lasted, I suppose, some eight or ten minutes, each waiting for the other to speak first.

Then the door burst open, and Maimie rushed in,—her eyes sparkling, and a packet of papers in her hand.

“Look!” she cried,—“these are for you to see, Uncle Robert,—and Aunt Marion too, if she likes. Three are letters from father to me—one before he married mother, and two afterwards. And there are letters from him to mother, which she gave me, and told me I was to keep. And the others are between mother and me, when I was at school, and she was thinking of marrying again. I didn’t like it at all then, for I did not know he would be so kind to me.”

She laid the letters on my husband’s knee, breathing quickly with excitement. I saw Jack hovering outside the door, in attendance on her steps. He thrust his head in now, and said,—“Come, Maimie! Couldn’t get her to touch a drop of tea, till the box was open, and she had hauled out those papers. Come along, Maimie!”

And Maimie went. I kept silence still; and my husband as silently opened the uppermost letter, and read, passing it on to me. He was always a man of few words. I, on the contrary, was burning to speak; yet a certain dread of saying the wrong thing restrained me.

The letters between Maimie and her mother made the matter clear enough. They were very free and affectionate outpourings. Mrs. Browne spoke cautiously at first of a certain Mr. Hazel, but very soon went on to the mention of a coming stepfather. Maimie’s answers were full of passionate remonstrances, gradually lessening. A kind little note from Churton came in here, addressed to the excited school-girl. “Churton himself!” my husband murmured over it, and I could have echoed the words. The two from him, after the marriage, were equally characteristic. He called her rather effusively, “his dear little fair-haired dove.”

“By no means a dove-like nature,” I muttered.

The two or three letters from Churton Hazel to his wife came last; and had any further proof been needed they would have supplied it.

“Well,” my husband said at length. He pressed the little pile of papers together, sighed, and turned to me. “Well, Marion?”

“Churton has acted disgracefully,” I said.

“He means to write, I have no doubt.”

“I have very strong doubts.”

“Churton generally means to do the right thing, my dear,—but he very seldom does it.”

“The question now is what to do with the girl,” I said impatiently.

“Of course we must keep her till we hear from him,” observed Robert, a touch of hesitation or timidity coming into his voice.

“I don’t see any ‘of course’! She is no relation,—has no claim upon us.”

Robert moved his head,—whether in assent or dissent I could not tell.

“And we cannot afford to support her, Robert. We cannot possibly afford it. She must go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.” My husband’s composure exasperated me. “That is for you to decide. I only know that we cannot afford to keep her.”

“Till Churton writes,” suggested Robert.

“And suppose he does not write at all? As likely as not, this is a trick for getting rid of her.”

“Marion, don’t hint that to Maimie again.”

“No,” I said. “But it is probably the truth.”

“We have no reason for supposing so,” said Robert.

“Well,—think as you like,” I said shortly. “I only know one thing,—that we cannot keep her.”

“But, my dear Marion, what do you propose to do with the child?” asked Robert seriously.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I only know we cannot afford any extra expenses. And you know it too. The pull upon us now is terrible.” My voice choked as I spoke. “It is no rare thing that the children have barely enough to eat. And as for clothes—”

“I do not forget all that,” he said sadly.

“And yet you want to take up this burden too!”

“I! no,” he said, in a low voice. “I do not want it. But what if our Master gives it to us to be carried?”

Both were silent, till Robert said again, “That is my feeling. And also,—I do not think one can ever be really the poorer for money lent to God.”

No doubt this was true. But money given grudgingly is not lent to God. I had the thought strongly in my mind, yet could not utter it.

“Come, Marion, my love,—” and he looked anxiously at me,—“you know as well as I do that only one path lies open to us. We must give the child shelter for a little while. Possibly on inquiry we may find some clue to Churton’s whereabouts,—or he may write. In any case we must have time to consider our next step.”

“Could you not consult Aunt Briscoe?” I asked suddenly.

“Would she give advice that I could follow?”

“I think she would like to be consulted,” I said.

“Well, there is no harm in talking matters over with her. I think I can arrange to go for half-a-day on Saturday. And you must come with me, Marion, instead of Jack or Cherry. That will please Aunt Briscoe, and we shall enjoy the little trip together.”

I did not think I could enjoy anything just then; but I made no objection to the plan.

Maimie came up presently from the basement-room, with one arm linked in Cherry’s, and a circle of fascinated boys hovering round. Nobody seemed to feel as I did about the intruder.

Food and rest had brought back a delicate tint to her cheeks, and the black eyes were shining with a satisfaction in which I had no share. But as she crossed the room, a look of anxiety dawned, and she went straight to my husband’s side.

“Have you read the letters, Uncle Robert?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, Maimie.”

“And it is all true, isn’t it? I am not an impostor. Your brother really is my stepfather.”

“Yes, it is all quite true,” Robert said. “There can be no mistake about my brother’s handwriting.”

“I am so glad you are convinced. It was dreadful just at first, when I almost thought I was going to be turned out into the street.”

She gave a half shudder, and crept closer to him. Robert’s arm went round her, and the flaxen head lay on his shoulder.

“Oh, that is so nice,—so nice. It’s like mother.”

A sigh broke into the words. She must have been very tired, for after sitting thus for some minutes she dropped asleep. A “hush” among the children first drew my attention.

I could not help lifting my eyes from time to time, just for a look. Maimie asleep was even more lovely than Maimie awake. The parted lips had such a sweet sad curve.

Robert would not have her disturbed. He was not generally caressing in manner, but Maimie had won upon him from the first moment. I wondered if Cherry would feel jealous. But no,—Cherry was knitting away with a bright face, glancing often from Maimie to Jack with looks of positive delight. Jack simply sat and watched Maimie, in his favourite attitude, propping his chin on the palms of his hands, and seeming oblivious of everything else. Cresswell made scant advance with his lessons that night; and even steady Owen worked with but fitful attention.

It must have been at least an hour before Maimie awoke. When she did, I saw a tremulous start, and her eyes wandered round in bewilderment. “Mother!” burst from her lips, and then there was a mournful,—“Oh, I forgot;” and a deep sigh.

Jack could not stand it. He sprang up, and came a step or two nearer, saying quite pitifully,—“Don’t, Maimie,—please don’t, Maimie.”

My husband put his arm round Maimie afresh; and Cherry left her work to comfort the girl. But I could say and do nothing. I felt as if I stood alone,—outside the circle interested in Maimie. It was the first time I had ever known the sense of separation between me and mine. And there is no separation like heart-separation.

“Maimie is tired out now. She will feel better in the morning,” Cherry said cheerfully.

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t come! Oh, I do wish I hadn’t come!” I could hear Maimie murmur in smothered tones.

“You mustn’t wish that, Maimie, because we are all so glad to have you,” said Jack. “We’ll do our very best to make you happy.”

“Maimie, I shall take you to see St. Paul’s and the Tower, and all sorts of London sights,” put in Cress, as his offered share of consolation.

“Not Westminster Abbey. You’ll leave that to me,” Jack said, with a touch of unwonted sharpness. “And the Houses of Parliament, and—”

“There is plenty for everybody to show Maimie,” said Cherry, in her peace-making way. “But I think she wants nothing now so much as to go to bed. Mother, may she—without waiting for prayers? she is so tired.”

“Maimie may go when she pleases,” I answered, hearing again the hard sound in my voice.

“I’ll go up with you, Maimie, and see that everything is comfortable,” Cherry said kindly. “Don’t cry any more, but come.”

And she was led away, sorrowful still. I think I just kissed her, yet not cordially or willingly. If I saw that the burden had to be accepted, at least for a while, I would not take my share of it with a free heart.