Chapter VIII: Doing Work

MAIMIE was as good as her word, which was more than I had expected. She had seemed to me too flighty to settle down steadily to work of any kind, But I think this was mistaken judgment. I do not think Maimie’s was really a flighty nature. There was an under-current of right feeling and right principle; and there was strong force of will.

From the hour of our talk together, she began to take upon herself a full share of household work. Hitherto she had been treated as a guest, every one giving up the best to her, and waiting upon her. Now she began to wait upon everybody—to Cherry’s surprise, and to Jack’s disgust.

“Mother, has anybody been saying anything to Maimie?” he asked. “She’s washing up the tea-things.”

“Why not, Jack?” I asked.

“Why? Those pretty little hands!”

“Hands are none the worse for being useful. Cherry has nice little hands too, but you don’t mind seeing them employed.”

“Cherry! No,” Jack said, as if Cherry were quite another sort of mortal. “But Maimie!”

“If Maimie lives with us it is right that she should help in the work of the house,” I said. “I can’t have my good unselfish Cherry worn to a skeleton with waiting on idle people.”

“Mother! As if Maimie was ever idle! Cherry a skeleton, indeed!”

Jack’s tone had never so nearly approached anger in speaking to me; never in all his life. I hardly knew how to bear it, and tears were in my eyes. But I managed to laugh; for certainly Cherry was far enough as yet from any likeness to a skeleton. And Jack did not notice my tears, as he would usually have done.

“Then you did speak to Maimie, mother,” he said, staring out of the window.

“Yes,” I replied. “Maimie was in distress at not hearing from her stepfather, and wanted to know how she could work to support herself. I told her that was impossible at present, and I suggested that she should sometimes help Cherry. It seemed to console her a little.”

“Oh well, that isn’t so bad,” Jack said, heaving a sigh. “I was afraid somebody had been at her, scolding or lecturing. Well, I only hope we never shall hear from Uncle Churton at all, and then Maimie will belong to us.”

“That is hardly so kind a wish as I should have expected from you.”

“Why, mother?”

“Because Maimie loves her stepfather. And because your father naturally would like to hear from his only brother. And because we have not the means to support Maimie.”

“But we have no choice;” and his eyes sparkled. “We can’t turn her out, when she has nowhere to go. We really have no choice at all.”

“Not just at present,” I said. “As Aunt Briscoe said, there is only one alternative.”

“What’s that, mother?”

“The workhouse!” and I spoke the word as quietly as Aunt Briscoe herself had spoken it.

Jack turned on his heel with an explosive “Pshaw!”

“I am quoting Aunt Briscoe,” I said. “Jack, you don t often speak to me in such a tone.”

Jack was down on a chair by my side in a moment, kissing and begging pardon. Yet hardly had the apology passed his lips, before he was breaking out again into an indignant, “Workhouse for Maimie, indeed! The idea!”

“People with nothing to live upon cannot pick and choose.”

“Much Aunt Briscoe would like it for herself,” Jack said scornfully. “Well, as long as I have two hands to work with, Maimie shall never come to that. Mother, I wish you liked her better.”

I looked up at him, and said, “I like Maimie as much as can be expected in so short a time, Jack. Perhaps I am not quite so much infatuated as—some people.”

“Fascinated, not infatuated,” said Jack quickly. He rose and moved away, but came back from the door to say, “You’ll learn in time. You will love her in time, mother.” Then he was gone, and I began to realise, as mothers must, that my boy was growing out of boyhood.

It was so evidently a pleasure to Maimie to find herself of use in the house, that Jack ceased to resist, though he was always rushing forward to seize something from her hands, or to save her exertion. I wished he would take as much pains for Cherry; but though really a very kind brother, he did not at all object to seeing her hard at work.

Cress’ admiration for Maimie took a different form. Here, as in everything, he was disposed to put self first. He liked Maimie, therefore he liked her to wait upon him. He was accustomed to have much done for him, and he saw no reason for making Maimie an exception in the doing.

In respect of various household matters, such as laying of tables, washing of china, dusting of rooms, and cookery, Maimie proved herself an adept. She was very quick, and beautifully neat.

“I never liked housework, but mother always made me,” she said in explanation, when surprise was shown.

The real puli lay more in connection with needlework. Maimie seemed to have an unconquerable aversion to her needle. Delicate and pretty work would have been more to her taste; but in our house, patching, turning, and darning were the order of the day.

Maimie fought hard against her dislike, and forced herself to sit over it hour after hour, with burning cheeks, struggling to be “useful.” I did not at all realise how great the strain was. Cherry saw it long before I did, probably because she cared more for Maimie. But I think Maimie withheld her from speaking.

The change to our confined London home was very great to Maimie Browne, after her free country life, with fresh country air and abundant exercise. Cherry and I had seldom time to go out, except on little shopping excursions, or for a short walk with the younger children. And Maimie was too young and pretty, and too strange to London, for much wandering about alone.

She had some long half-holiday rambles with the boys, when weather permitted, and these helped to keep her in health for a time. But when she took so eagerly to helping us with work, we found it difficult to persuade her to go out as much as even we thought needful.

Had I fully understood the manner of Maimie’s life hitherto, the way in which she had spent her days among trees and flowers, the absolute freedom and ease which she had known from infancy, I think I should have judged much more to be necessary.

I did notice, as weeks went on, that she was drooping; but it seemed to me that her stepfather’s continued silence was enough to account for this. She had been pale when she first came, a pretty soft healthy paleness, with coral lips in contrast. But now a tinge of unhealthy yellow was creeping into the paleness, and the coral red was dying into a faint pink, and the black eyes were losing their sparkle.

I thought Maimie was depressed, and I offered few remarks. It is not always wise to make young girls nervous about themselves, by talking too much of their health. And I fancied Maimie was one who would give in readily, as soon as needful. But I did not then know the strength of her will.

“Mother, I don’t think Maimie is well,” Jack said sometimes. Somehow his solicitude made me less inclined to act, not more inclined. Was I jealous of Jack’s admiration for Maimie—my Jack, who had hitherto been only mine? How often the anxious looks which had been so often bent upon me, were now bent upon Maimie! Well, was it not natural? Jack was reaching an age when boys will begin to have their little fancies. He was as good a son to me as ever, only there was now somebody else too. Just the merest fancy of course on his part—he such a boy still, and she a mere child. Yet I know it was pain to me. I could have given Maimie more love, if Jack had given her less.

“Mother, I am sure Maimie is not well,” Cherry said one day. “She was awake ever so long in the night, crying with pain in her side. I gave her something for it, but I don’t think she is better yet.”

“Don’t let her do too much this morning, and I will see by-and-by how she is,” I said.

I was very busy that morning, and very tired myself. Somehow it went out of my head about Maimie’s side-ache, and I blame myself, for certainly I should not have forgotten if Cherry or Jack or any other of my children had been the sufferer.

Cherry did her best to follow my directions, but Maimie was not to be easily managed. She made beds, dusted, washed, much as usual, and insisted that Cherry should not say another word to me. Seeing her so bright and active no doubt helped me to forget.

We had a heavy basketful of clothes needing repairs that afternoon. Cherry proposed that Maimie should have a little walk before joining us, but so decisive a “No” was the response, that she said no more. This recalled to me Cherry’s words in the morning, and I asked at once, “By-the-bye, how is your side, Maimie?” She flushed up, said hastily, “It’s nothing to signify,” and began talking to Cherry.

“Cress as usual,” Cherry remarked, displaying a jacket out at the elbows. “Isn’t it wonderful how Cress’ things last only half as long as anybody else’s?”

“He does not make up his mind that they must last,” I said. “Give me that jacket, Cherry. You have enough to do with the stockings.”

“It’s a good thing I have a particular gift for darning,” Cherry remarked, with a smile. “Just see, what a foot! That is Cress’ too. O mother, wouldn’t it be splendid to have five pounds’ worth of new clothes all at once?”

“No use to begin wishing for impossibilities.”

“Fancy how one would spend the five pounds,” pursued Cherry, talking cheerily, as she liked to do over her work. “Three new pairs of socks for each of the boys, and for father. And three pairs of stockings for each of us. Mother, it is wonderful how much of the five pounds would run straight away on socks and stockings alone. And so many shoes and boots are wanted. Five pounds would hardly clothe all the feet of the family, so as to give us a few weeks’ holiday in that line from mending.”

“Better not begin to wish,” I said again. “It only means discontent.”

Cherry looked up at this, and smiled. “I was only amusing myself,” she said. “I don’t think I am avaricious.”

She did not look so, with her sunny face. Maimie made no response to all this, but sat silently, leaning back, and working slowly, with downcast eyes.

I do not know how long we all three remained thus: between one and two hours, perhaps.

It was a half-holiday, and Maimie had resolutely refused to take a ramble with the elder boys. They went out somewhat vexed at her refusal; but Jack returned early, as I expected him to do.

He came in upon us, as we sat together, a busy trio, and before I could look up, I heard his voice in a tone of consternation—

“Maimie! what’s the matter?”