Maris (9 page)

"There are lots like that, aren't there?" he agreed. "And it's maddening. But when I get like that, I like to remember what my mother used to say, that she was so glad God had said vengeance was
His
and
He
would repay where it was needed and we didn't have to do a thing about it! '
Therefore
if thine enemy hunger, feed him.' "

She looked at him for a minute, and her face changed.

"I never thought of it like that," she said humbly. "I never realized that God would care about what people did to me. I thought I was all alone in it. But it would help a lot to realize He does, and He'll do the getting even if there's any getting even to be done."

A light came into Maitland's eyes, a light of satisfaction, as if she had measured up to what he had hoped.

"Yes, it takes responsibility off us, doesn't it? I kind of hoped you'd feel that way. And now, is there anything I could do?"

"You've done a lot," she said earnestly. "You don't know how you've helped me. It's wonderful to know the boys are safe and there's a chance they may not get the measles. But I'm afraid they'll be an awful nuisance to you."

"Not a bit of it. We're getting along fine. They're great kids, and I like 'em. We're going to have the time of our lives. And now, I've had the telephone put in, and you can call me anytime you like, day or night. I've nothing else to do for the next few days but hang around here, and I'm glad to have such congenial company."

"I can't thank you enough!" said Maris earnestly, and impulsively she put out her hand. He took it in a quick hearty grasp, smiling, and was gone.

Maris started upstairs suddenly comforted. After all, if things went wrong, God would somehow set them right. She couldn't, not even with all the apologies in the universe. Then she remembered several invitations for the near future that ought to be canceled at once, and turning back went again to the telephone. She called up several numbers, telling her friends that her mother had been taken very ill and she would have to cancel all engagements for the present. Some of them were kindly and filled with dismay, and some of them were not at home and she had to leave a message with a servant, but she felt relieved when it was done.

Upstairs in her room at last, she heard Lexie moaning and went to see if she could do anything to help her.

Then the clock downstairs struck six in soft silvery chimes, and almost on the dot Maris heard Tilford's car drive up and stop before the house.
Now what?
Her heart gave a frightened beat, and then she remembered.

"Oh, God, You're going to take charge!" she breathed as she heard Sally coming to her door.

 

 

As Maris passed by her mirror, she saw that her hair was all awry; there were dark circles under her eyes in a white, white face. Tilford would tell her about it at once probably, but it didn't matter.

Out in the hall she met the nurse with a hot-water bottle in her hand.

"Your father's feet are so cold," she explained in a whisper. "I'm afraid he's getting a nervous chill. You know he didn't eat anything at lunchtime. I've tried to persuade him to go in another room and lie down, but he won't. I wonder if you could ask the maid to bring him up a cup of coffee. I want to get him warmed up. He oughtn't to be chilly this way."

"I will," said Maris. "Is Mother--all right?"

"Well, she's not all right by any means, but she hasn't had any more of those sinking spells since the doctor was here."

With a heavy heart, Maris went on her way down the back stairs to give the order to Sally and then into the living room where a frowning lover waited.

"You're not ready!" he announced in displeasure as she came in wearily trying to smile at him.

"Why, didn't your mother tell you I couldn't possibly come with you?"

"I haven't seen Mother since I left the house just after lunch. I told her to remind you of our engagement and to say that you must be ready when I came for you. How long will it take you? Is your suitcase packed? I can wait exactly five minutes and no more. A man is calling me on long distance from Chicago and I must be at home when the call comes in."

"Well, you needn't wait, Tilford. I can't possibly come. I have called your sister and explained."

"That is unpardonable!" he said, looking at her with a glitter of scorn in his eyes. "I'm afraid I shall have to insist. I shall have to exercise my authority. This isn't an ordinary dinner engagement. This is my sister's dinner to introduce you to our friends. It is very important. I cannot allow you to disregard it."

"Authority? Allow?" said Maris, lifting puzzled eyes to his stony, offended countenance.

"You are wearing my ring," he said significantly. "I told you this morning what I felt that means. Your mother has lasted all day. She will doubtless last a few hours longer without your help. I cannot allow you to ruin our wedding preparations this way for mere sentiment. I thought you had more strength of character than that!"

Maris stared at him for an instant longer, and then she looked down at her ring as if she had never been acquainted with it before.

Slowly she put up her other hand and took the ring off, holding it out to him.

"You had better take it back, then. I could not wear a ring under those conditions." Her voice was very firm and very sad.

But he did not take the ring.

"You are beside yourself!" he said in tones like icicles. "You do not know what you are doing. I did not know you had such a temper. Put on that ring, and stop acting like a child! You said you were never going to take it off when I put it on, and now look! Put it on quickly or you will drop it on the floor. It is too valuable a stone to be playacting with. Don't, for heaven's sake, try to get your own way by being dramatic. It won't go down with me!"

Maris suddenly reached out and pushed the ring within his clasp and, turning, fairly flew up the stairs. Her face was ghastly white and her head was whirling, but she did not forget to go softly, and to the listening angry man below it seemed almost as if she had melted into mist, so silently she disappeared.

He stood for a minute looking down at the great lovely stone in its perfect setting, catching the evening sunlight that fell through the door, reflecting sharp bright lights in a prism of color. Then his anger rose still hotter. To think she would dare play with as costly a stone as that! To expect she could conquer him, Tilford Thorpe, when he had once given forth his mandate! And he had thought her so gentle! So pliable! So easy to mold!

Almost he started up the stairs after her! Then he thought better of that! That was doubtless what she wanted. She was likely in hysterics now, expecting him to find his way to her and yield to her wishes. Let her see what she had done! Let her go through the night without that wonderful ring! Let her know humiliation and shame and understand what a dreadful thing it was to stand out against him!

So he tucked the ring into his pocket and whirled on his heel, going out the screen door, which would have slammed if Maitland hadn't taken care that very noon to put a tiny pad of cotton in the spot where it would have slammed. He went out to his car and started it with far more noise than he needed. Let her hear that she had sent him away from her! Let her understand how final had been her act! Let her have time to fully realize what an awful, what an irreparable thing she had done in offending the whole mighty Thorpe family! Let her think that it was all over forever between them. It would do her good. He wouldn't be in a hurry to make it up, either. She would have to come crawling after him, and ask forgiveness, too. It wasn't for him to yield. He drove furiously away from her thinking his mad thoughts.

And up in her own room Maris knelt by the window over in the corner where Lexie couldn't see her from the bed, where no one would see her if they opened the door to call her; where only God could see her. And she said quietly in words that only God could hear: "Dear God, were You taking charge? Was that what You wanted me to do?"

And then quite simply she clasped her hands that were empty of her lovely ring and felt entirely naked and helpless, and was suddenly conscious of a great peace. God was taking charge, and it must have been what He willed, for there had been nothing else to do. She could not go away and make merry and leave her dear ones who needed her. And she could not wear Tilford's ring under those conditions!

Then she heard Merrick's hushed footsteps coming to her door, and she arose quite calmly to meet him, stepping out in the hall and talking in low tones. Her brother's eyes searched her face.

"You all right, Maris?" he asked with an unwonted tenderness in his tone.

"All right, brother!"

"Where's Gwyn? I can't find her anywhere."

"I let her go over to Erminie's to stay a few days. You know, they won't let her come back to school if she stays here, even though she has had the measles. Don't you think that was all right? She oughtn't to stay out of school. She'll only be worrying if she stays here."

"Sure that was all right. But what about the boys? They'll get it, I suppose."

"Maybe not. Lane Maitland has taken them over to his home to stay awhile. They're charmed. You're to take over a bag of some things for them. I was going to suggest that you stay there, too, but I guess maybe we might need you here if anything happens in the night. Father isn't so well. The nurse said he was having a nervous chill."

"Say, that's awful!" said Merrick. "No, I'll stay here. Maybe I'd better go look at Dad. Where is he?"

"Close by Mother. The nurse said he won't leave her."

They went softly to the door and looked in. It was very quiet in the shadowed room. The nurse was running the water in the bathroom. Their mother lay as quiet as she had been all day, and sometimes it seemed as if she were scarcely breathing. Her eyes were closed. The children's hearts contracted, and Maris could hardly keep from crying out in her agony as she recalled her brother's words that morning: "That doggone fool wedding is at the bottom of it all." Was she the cause of her mother's sudden illness? Oh, she was, she knew she must be! Could she ever, ever forgive herself? If Mother should die, how could they ever go on living?

Merrick went softly over by his father and laid his hand on his head, startled to feel it was hot and feverish. His father looked up and tried to smile sadly.

Merrick stooped and whispered in his ear, "It's all right, Dad. Mr. Matthews says he'll extend the note. You needn't worry!"

A look of relief passed over the drawn, worn features of the father, and he drew a deep breath of a sigh.

Merrick slipped out softly and came back presently with a folding cot, and then again with a soft mattress.

The nurse came in with sheets and pillows.

"Now, Mr. Mayberry, you're going to lie down on this cot, close to your wife, and then you'll be able to hear her if she stirs and wants anything," she whispered to him.

Maris saw Merrick bring their father's bathrobe and help him off with his coat and then make him lie down, with another great sigh of relief. Then she hurried back to her own patient. Poor Father! He had been worrying about something. A note that had to be extended? What was that? Had Father been so hard put to it that he had had to borrow money to pay for her wedding? Oh, how had she been so blind? And she had been so thrilled and involved in all the intriguing activities that Tilford had produced from day to day that she had not noticed! Was it possible that God had to send all these startling anxieties to bring her to her senses?

It was not yet time for Lexie's medicine. She seemed to be still sleeping. Maris dropped down on her bed for a moment and let these enlightening facts roll over her tired soul in a great condemning flood.

Then she began to go back and think it out. What a dear family she had always had! How they had always done everything together, and enjoyed it. Even being poor together! There was the year when Father had thought that he was going to lose the house because he had had to let the interest on the mortgage lapse. How desperately they had all saved and planned and tried to make a bit of money here and there to help. Even the children. She recalled Gwyneth at five years going into the woods with some children and bringing home quantities of spring beauties, which she had tied in funny little bunches and taken out on the street and actually sold, for a penny a bunch! She could see their father's face now when she had brought her entire fortune of eleven cents to him radiantly and told him it was to pay the mortgage off. Such tears and tenderness and love! How their interest had all been one, and how the disasters and troubles had only served to make them love one another more! And now, somehow, she seemed to have drifted away from them all. It was as if she were an alien among them, going her own way, or rather Tilford's way, and having all her interests and pleasures in another world, a world they did not know. Why, she seldom had time to tell any of them anymore what she was doing.

She recalled how she always used to come in no matter how late it was when she had been out for the evening and tell her mother everything she had been doing. And always the whole family took such an interest in her comings and goings. But of late there had seemed to be almost a spirit of resentment whenever she spoke of where she had been or what she'd been doing. Was it always like that when children got married? Did all the rest resent it? Did they lose one another forever and ever? A sudden great sob swelled in her throat and threatened to overwhelm her. Was this what being married to Tilford would mean? That she would no more belong to her precious family? That they would have no right to know of her affairs? Oh, she couldn't stand that! It wasn't right. It surely couldn't be the way God had planned life for a universe, to have those who married suddenly cut off entirely from everything that had always been precious. Why, her parents didn't know right now what she had been going through with the Thorpes. She didn't want them to know. It would hurt them terribly.

Or did they know? Was it possible that Mother and Father with their fine intuitions had sensed it? And could that be part of what had made Mother sick? Dear, sensitive Mother! Oh, what was she going to do about it? And the wedding was only a few days off!