Chapter VII: Looking Out

HALF-PAST ten o’clock struck, and our absent ones at last came home.

Jack looked uneasy and out of spirits. I could see that at a glance. Cress was in high glee, laughing and talking with Maimie. Owen always took things quietly, and I noticed no particular change in his face. Maimie herself had a brilliant colour, and seemed excited.

“Mother, I’m awfully sorry we are so late,” Jack said, when they first entered. “May we have some supper?”

“Have you had nothing to eat?” I asked.

“Only some buns at five o’clock. We meant to be back earlier. I dare say Cherry will get out a loaf of bread for us. It’s too late for tea, of course.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, when Cherry looked at me.

Nobody offered any further explanation. I went down with them into the basement-room, leaving my husband still asleep. Bread and butter were there vigorously attacked by the three boys, Maimie taking little, as was her wont. She had evidently enjoyed herself thoroughly, and kept breaking out into little notes of admiration; while Jack made few remarks, but gave me some anxious glances furtively.

I gathered that they had taken Maimie to the Abbey, and had shown her a considerable part of Westminster. Then Maimie had treated them all to a trip on the river as far as Blackfriars, and a view of St. Paul’s had followed. Naturally they were late, after crowding so much into one afternoon. But why should they have attempted it all?

Robert made no complaint, and I too resolved to keep silence that evening. So when the boys had eaten enough, and we had had family prayers, all went to bed.

I thought Jack would certainly stay behind and offer some kind of fuller explanation. But he did not; and I was troubled.

Next day came, and Jack still said nothing; neither did Cress bring up the subject. It was Owen, not one of the elder boys, who said to me in the course of the afternoon—

“Mother, we really didn’t mean to be so long coming home yesterday.”

“It was not right,” I said. “And Jack has not told me how it happened.”

“No,” Owen replied. “The fact is, mother, he is afraid Maimie will be blamed. He wanted me to promise not to say a word; but I would not promise, and I don’t like to see you worried.”

“Then it was Maimie’s doing?” I said.

“Maimie doesn’t understand,” the boy said. “Jack wanted to come back in good time from Westminster, and he said you and father liked it best, and Maimie laughed. She says she has always done as she wished; and she seemed to think it so funny for a big fellow like Jack to have to obey. And then Cress laughed too, and he said he should please himself, and he didn’t mean to hurry. And Maimie proposed to go on the river, and to pay for all of us. We didn’t think at first of going to St. Paul’s; but the first boat that passed went that way, and when Maimie found we were near the Cathedral nothing could stop her. Jack was vexed about it all; but if he had come away, Maimie and Cress would have stayed behind.”

“Perhaps if Jack had been decided, they would have given in,” I said.

“I don’t think so, mother. Maimie was so bent on seeing St. Paul’s; and I’m sure Jack wouldn’t have liked to leave Maimie with Cress. He told me I had better stay too—I mean, he seemed to think we had better all keep together.”

“Maimie was not right,” I said.

“I don’t believe she knows any better, mother. She seems to have had a queer bringing-up. And she has always lived in a small sort of place, and of course she knows nothing at all about London.”

“Hardly a sufficient excuse,” I said.

“But, mother,—Jack was so afraid you would blame her. That was why he would not speak. He said he would much rather you should think it was all his fault. She’s a jolly girl, as full of fun as can be; and yet she can be grave too. She knows lots of history, and seemed as if she could never be tired of the monuments in the Abbey. It was as good as a history book to hear her talk. And once, when the organ was being played, she knelt down alone in a corner, away from us all, listening and looking—I can’t tell you how she looked. Jack said it was like something—a saint, I think. Cress laughed, but he told Maimie what Jack had said.”

“A saint means one who is holy,” I said. “If Maimie is going to lead my boys into wilful ways, and to teach them disobedience, she will prove herself to be anything but a saint, Owen.”

“Oh, but she won’t, mother,” he said affectionately. “Don’t you be afraid. She won’t do that, so you mustn’t be worried. Jack only didn’t like to get her blamed; and Cress always does like to be independent, you know.”

Yes; this was one of Cress’ failings, and it always had been. Jack’s stronger and more robust nature could more readily stoop to submission than Cress’ less manly nature. That is often to be seen. A little mind will fight against authority, where a great mind will at once obey. Cress’ failing in this respect was no new thing. But if Maimie were to back him up in his independence, how would matters be then?

“Jack will be angry with me for telling,” Owen remarked. And I promised that I would, if possible, avoid drawing in his name.

Partly for Owen’s sake, I resolved not to speak to Maimie immediately. Apart from Owen, there were other advantages in a slight delay. It is often a good plan to wait, when one has to find fault, until one has had time for weighing the matter, and deciding how much of blame is really due. Words spoken hastily on the moment’s impulse are apt to be needlessly strong, and so to cause needless irritation. Also, I was getting to know Maimie better each day.

She seemed to be quietly fitting into our home. I began to feel it quite natural to see her about.

Maimie was very winning in her ways. When she came down in the morning, with her rippling waves of hair, and her soft smiling eyes, kissing Cherry so lovingly, and throwing her arms round Robert, and greeting all the boys with such pleasant looks, I always was aware of a particular charm about her. She never threw her arms round me, or lifted her black eyes to mine with their sweetest expression. We just exchanged a kiss, and that was all. I admired the child, and did my best to feel rightly towards her, but somehow she held aloof. I think there was a feeling of resentment still at the words I had spoken about her stepfather.

It was quite touching, as days went on, to see her eagerness about the postman. Every hour when he might pass,—not seldom in a London street,—she was almost sure to be watching at the window. A flush would come into her cheeks the moment she saw or heard him in the distance, deepening each instant as he drew nearer, till he went by our door. Then her colour would fade quite away, and for half-an-hour or more she would look pale and spiritless.

But she said nothing, and she did not seem to wish for sympathy. Since her first arrival, she had not once asked whether or no we had decided to keep her. That appeared to be all taken for granted; unless indeed she spoke more freely to Cherry. This anxious watching for the postman, however, showed to me something of her real feelings.

The middle of the week passed, and still I had not spoken to her about the Saturday excursion. Another Saturday was drawing near, and I overheard a mention of “Hampton Court” among the boys. It might or might not mean anything; but I resolved to delay no longer. And late on Thursday afternoon an opportunity came.

Maimie and I were alone together, not a very common occurrence. She was watching at the window, in one of her periodical fits of anxiety. I knew by her rosy flush that the postman had approached. Suddenly she grew crimson. Steps ran up our flight, and the sharp double rap sounded. Maimie flew into the hall like a wild creature; but her return was slow enough.

“It is nothing,—only a stupid London letter,” she said brokenly, and I saw that her eyes were overflowing.

“Did you expect a letter from your stepfather, Maimie?” I found myself saying.

She straightened herself, and dashed aside her tears. “Yes, of course,” she answered. “He said he would write.”

I did not reply quickly. Maimie sat down on a chair facing me.

“Aunt Marion,” she said,—“I think father must be ill.”

I had it on my lips to say,—“No need to suppose that.” But looking up at her, a feeling of pity came over me, and I only replied,—“He may be.”

“And that would account for his not writing,” she said.

“If he is ill, it may go on a long time. Some illnesses last for weeks. He would want me with him, but he might be too ill to send for me. Poor father!”

I did not quite know what to say to this.

“So I have been thinking,” she resumed,—“thinking what to do—if he does not write soon, I mean.”

“I think you will have to stay here for the present,” I said.

“But I am only in the way here,” Maimie said abruptly, and tears sprang again to her eyes. “Uncle and Cherry and the boys are very kind; but I am not wanted.”

The leaving out of my name was marked.

“I hope we are all kind to you,” I said. “But that is hardly the question, Maimie. Where else can you go, if you do not stay with us? We are willing to keep you; and you must be willing to stay.”

“I am not willing,” the girl said; and there was another red flush. “I hate to be a burden. Aunt Marion, isn’t there anything I could do? I thought there were clerkships for girls sometimes. Couldn’t Uncle Robert hear of one for me?”

I tried to explain to her how much would be required; how little she was fitted for such work, not to speak of being too young; and how great was the competition for work in London.

“But I can do needlework,” she said. “Wouldn’t somebody pay me for that?”

I could hardly help smiling. “You can darn for ten minutes at a time,” I said.

“Oh—darning—I can’t bear darning. I could work hard, if it was to get my living.”

Her eyes flashed as she spoke. I said, after a pause—“If you really want to be useful, you might help Cherry sometimes.”

“What, in darning?” she asked.

“That, and other things. One more in the house makes more work to be done. Why should you not take your share?”

“And that will make me a little less of a burden! Yes, of course I will,” she said. “I do hate mending and washing up, but, of course I’ll do them. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I am going to tell you one other thing,” I said; and I know I spoke quietly, as I should not have done some days before. “You must not laugh at my boys, Maimie, for their loving obedience to their mother. You must not lead them into wrong.”

She opened her eyes widely. “Lead them into wrong!” she repeated. “Laugh at the boys!”

“Last Saturday afternoon,” I said. “I do not know all that passed; but something of it has reached me. You must not do that again.”

“Last Saturday! Why, that is ever so long ago,” she said. Then, with a sudden smile—“But it was so comical—that great tall Jack—”

“There is nothing comical in a young man’s submission to his parents’ wishes. It is grand rather than funny. Obedience is a nobler thing, Maimie, than doing what one likes.”

“I have always done what I liked,” she said.

“Yes, I daresay you have. That is self-pleasing. Anybody can be self-willed, easily enough. But some amount of self-control is needed for obedience.”

“Only there couldn’t possibly be any harm in the boys’ staying away an hour or two longer,” she objected.

“Perhaps not,” I said. “But you could not possibly judge. You know nothing of London. Still, the question does not hinge there. What I dread for my boys is, that you should teach them to think it manly to please themselves, and unmanly to love their home and to follow home-rules.”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t do that.” Then she laughed again, and said, “It sounds so funny to talk of my teaching a great fellow like Jack.”

“Great fellows are often more teachable than little fellows,” I said. “You can’t help teaching by influence, Maimie, one way or the other. All of us are always teaching and always learning. What I ask is that, while you are here, you should use your influence in a right way, not to make the boys do wrong.”

“Very well,” Maimie said. She spoke shortly, and I supposed her to be offended. But the next instant there was a sob, and she ran out of the room. Smiles and tears seemed very near together in Maimie Browne.