Chapter V: Asking Advice

THE day of Maimie Browne’s unexpected appearance was Thursday; and my husband decided to go to “The Gables” on Saturday, taking me with him. I should have enjoyed the prospect a good deal, but for this new anxiety about Maimie, and what to do with her. Robert and I so seldom went away together.

Friday passed quietly. I did not see much of Maimie, for she was in constant request among the boys; and she seemed quite happy, flitting from room to room, with a show of being busy, yet doing very little.

Once I advised her to sit down and work, suggesting that she might have mending to do. She said,—“No, there was nothing to mend;” and then very prettily offered to help Cherry. Bub before the thimble had been ten minutes in use Maimie was gone again; and once gone she did not quickly return. There seemed a restlessness upon the child which she could not control. At the time it vexed me. Now I can look back with a better understanding of how she felt her position.

Not many words passed that day between her and me. I did not wish to speak hastily, so grieving Robert; yet I could by no means feel cordially towards Maimie, or like to have her in the house.

Her manner annoyed me often. She was so entirely independent, and seemed not to have a notion of asking anybody’s leave about anything. With the boys she was all sparkle and brightness; with Cherry and my husband all sweetness and clinging affection. But with me there was constantly a look of slight defiance, as if she expected a battle. I knew this to be partly my own doing, but that made self-command no easier.

Saturday came, and after early dinner my husband and I started. There had been a good deal of discussion among the boys, as to where Maimie should go, and who should escort her. Jack and Cress had never come so near a downright quarrel before. As a rule, Cress’ sharp words seemed to have no power over Jack, but he showed unwonted irritation that day.

Maimie seemed rather to enjoy the dispute, looking from one to another with her bright eyes, and making no attempt to smooth down the difficulty.

But Cherry as usual did her best to keep matters straight. She proposed that the three elder boys should all have Maimie in charge, taking her by omnibus to Westminster, and showing her as much as they were able in a given time. Cress resisted, having set his heart on something else. After a while, however, he came round, and so it was settled. Cherry herself was unable to go in my absence, for she had the younger children in charge.

The boys were fond of saving up what little pocket-money they possessed for half-holiday trips; and I knew I should not be called upon for omnibus fares.

Meanwhile my husband and I started on our own separate excursion.

Aunt Briscoe was at that time getting on in years; yet she never had the air of being an old woman. Still less would one have described her as “a dear old woman.” There was about her nothing of the softness and mellowness of age. Some people’s angles rub off, and their natures grow rounder and smoother, with time’s action. But other people’s corners harden and become sharper year by year. I think the last was what happened to Aunt Briscoe.

“Well!” she said, when we entered, “this is an unlooked-for pleasure, to be sure! Robert and Marion together!” And her voice left me quite in doubt whether she really counted it a pleasure at all.

“Yes,” I said. “Robert wished me to come with him for once, Aunt. We don’t often go anywhere in company.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “But that was only to be expected. People who choose to marry as young as you two did, can’t look for much ease and leisure in after life.”

“I have no doubt we should do the same again, if we had the same choice over again,” Robert said, giving me a kind look.

But this was an unfortunate remark, for Aunt Briscoe had not married at all young herself.

“I hope you would not,” she said sharply. “It’s bad enough when one person won’t learn from another’s experience. But if you would not learn even from your own, why, all I can say is, that you must be downright idiots.”

Aunt Briscoe was apt to be more plain-spoken than polite. It is a common fault, especially in old age, with those who have accustomed themselves to the use of strong words all through life. We were used to this, and knew how to meet it. Robert saw that he had made a mistake; and he took care not to double his mistake by carrying on the subject.

“How are the children?” she asked presently. “Has Jack been a good boy lately?”

“Very good,” I said. “Jack always is the best of sons to us.”

“Jack is his mother’s favourite, that’s easily seen,” said Aunt Briscoe. “You’d better take care it isn’t a case of being ‘fond and foolish.’ But how is he doing his work? Giving satisfaction?”

“He does his best, I really believe,” my husband answered. “Poor Jack is not clever, you know.”

“Fudge!” Aunt Briscoe replied, in a tone of contempt. “Not clever indeed! As if the biggest dunce couldn’t learn to spell if he chose! Jack likes amusing himself.”

“Oh, but indeed it is not that,” I burst out. “Jack tries so hard.”

But Aunt Briscoe looked straight at my husband and went on, just as if I had not spoken—

“And how about Cress?”

“Cress certainly seems sharper than poor Jack,” said Robert. “We count him our clever one, Aunt Briscoe. Still, he is not too fond of hard work.”

“Cleverness is no use in the world unless there’s hard work to back it up,” Aunt Briscoe said. “The boys ought to have been made to work when they were young. That’s where the fault lies.”

I knew this to be a fling at me, and I chafed under it, for the fling was really undeserved. I had never been over-indulgent with my boys in that way; and Cress was the only one among them all who had not turned out a fairly steady hand at work. Perhaps I had been a little too easy with him in consequence of his health. But, anyhow, Cress’ faults were always my faults in Aunt Briscoe’s eyes, while the other boys’ virtues were their own virtues. Still, though I felt all this, I said nothing, for Robert’s sake.

“Owen is worth fifty of either of them,” Aunt Briscoe went on. “And Cherry is worth fifty of the whole pack of boys. I thought I had asked for Cherry to come to-day.”

“Cherry is at home taking care of the little ones,” Robert answered. “Marion came with me by my wish, Aunt. The truth is, we are in a perplexity, and we thought you might perhaps be able to help us with a little—a little—”

“Money!” said Aunt Briscoe; and she gave a sniff of disgust.

“No—advice,” Robert said gravely. “I do not think we have ever yet asked you for money.”

“No, you have not, that’s true,” she said. “All the more likely that perhaps some day I may give you some. If you asked, I shouldn’t think of such a thing. I never give where I’m asked, on principle. There’s such an amount of begging in the world. But as for advice, that’s all nonsense. Nobody ever takes advice.”

“Sometimes it helps one to see one’s way,” said my husband.

Aunt Briscoe shook her head. “What is it that’s the matter?” she asked, putting down her knitting and pushing up her spectacles. “Jack, I suppose. I suspected something wrong just now about him.”

“It is not Jack at all,” I said hastily. “It is Maimie Browne, Churton’s stepdaughter.”

Robert would have brought her to the idea more gently, I don’t doubt. She stared hard at me and said, “Is Marion out of her mind?”

“No, Aunt.” Robert was hardly able to help smiling. “But we have had unexpected news of Churton. He married a widow some years ago.”

“No reason why he shouldn’t,” said Aunt Briscoe. “He didn’t saddle himself with a wife at twenty. A man’s at liberty to marry later in life without wronging anybody, I hope. How many children has he? Not seven, I’ll be bound.”

“None of his own,” Robert said patiently. “There is only one stepdaughter. His wife is dead, and he has sent the girl home to us.”

“Sent her to you!”

“For a time—so she says—till he can have her with him again. He has gone into the States for some reason. Maimie expected him to have written, and he has not.”

“Send her back to him,” said Aunt Briscoe.

“We do not know his address,” Robert said. “And there would be the expense of the return voyage.”

“How old is the girl?”

“Thirteen,” I said.

Then there was a pause.

“What on earth did he do it for?” Aunt Briscoe asked at length.

“Nobody can imagine,” I said, “unless it is a trick to get her off his hands.”

Aunt Briscoe took up her knitting again in a deliberate manner.

“It may be that,” she said. “There’s no knowing, But I shouldn’t have thought Churton capable of it. Troublesome enough as a boy, but we didn’t count him deep. Always meaning to do right, and always doing wrong. That’s my notion of Churton Hazel.”

Curious that my husband should have taken much the same view of Churton’s conduct.

“But he has not written,” I said; “and no one knows where he is. He promised Maimie to send money for her support, and it has not come.”

“It may come yet,” said Aunt Briscoe.

“And meantime, what are we to do?” I asked. “Who is to support the girl?”

“That is for you to settle,” Aunt Briscoe said coolly. “The matter is in your own hands, and of course you are quite at liberty to say you won’t support her. Nobody can force you. Maimie, do you call her? What could make anybody give a child such a name?”

“‘Mary’ is her real name. I don’t see that the matter is in our hands at all,” I said feverishly. “If we didn’t keep the girl, who would?”

“The Parish,” Aunt Briscoe said quite composedly. And that meant, in plain terms, that she herself was not going to help.

“The workhouse!” my husband said, in a very low voice.

And I knew he was thinking, as was I, of the pretty delicate face and shining flaxen hair. The workhouse for Maimie!

“That is impossible!” I said, and my voice sounded fretful even to myself. “But we certainly cannot afford to keep Maimie.”

“Nobody will expect you to undertake what you cannot possibly afford,” Aunt Briscoe said.

Robert was silent, and his eyes were bent on the ground.

“And if we don’t?” I said.

“There’s the Parish,” Aunt Briscoe answered again, in just the same tone as before.

“I see you think that we ought to keep her,” I said.

Aunt Briscoe looked full at me. “I’ll tell you what I do think, niece Marion,” she said, “and that is, that you want to throw off the burden of the question on anybody except yourself. And I don’t mean to be that ‘anybody.’”

“Then you will not even give us a word of advice,” I said. “I might just as well not have come.”

“Just as well, if that was all you came for,” Aunt Briscoe said calmly. “Next time you had better send Cherry.”

Then she stood up and beckoned my husband towards her neat little conservatory. Gardening had been quite a passion with her husband, and I really think the softest part of Aunt Briscoe’s nature had to do with her love for flowers. “I’ve got some new plants here,” she said, “worth your looking at, Robert.”

I went too, though I was in no mood to can for new plants just then. I could not help thinking how much Aunt Briscoe spent on her own comforts and pleasures, and how easily she could have spared a five pound note to help us. But after all, one can’t judge for another.

“The Gables” was a very cosy house, and it had been built before land in that neighbourhood grew valuable. So it was not tall and narrow, like most small houses near London. On the ground floor there was a nice-sized drawing-room and a neat dining-room, and the kitchen and scullery were behind on the same level. And overhead were three good bedrooms, besides a dressing-room; and over those were some really comfortable garret-rooms. Then there was a long garden at the back, well stocked with vegetables and fruit trees; and in front a little green lawn, with a round bed in the centre and a narrow bed all round, and a footpath from the gate to the front door. Robert knew and loved every inch of the place. I could not feel the same love, not having known it in my young days. Still it was all very familiar and home-like to me. Till the death of Uncle Briscoe we had always looked on “The Gables” as a sort of family home.

I knew how nice and cosy everything was about the house; and how well Aunt Briscoe lived; and how little her two servants had to do. It did seem as if she might have helped us, or have offered to take in Maimie for a time. But she would not. That could be seen plainly enough. We had gained nothing by our visit,—not even a little advice,—not even a grain of pity.

And yet, to think of sending that young girl to the workhouse! I was as ready as Robert, if not more ready, to cry out, Impossible!