Maris

by Grace Livingston Hill

  "I guess I can tell when a fellow is trying to kiss a girl. I guess I could see what he had in his mind. Right out in a public place bringing my sister into disgrace! She's nothing but a child, Maris, and Harlan Westcott and Rance Mosher are a long way on in what our father and mother would call crime, and I'm not kidding! I know what I'm talking about! The nurse sent me after a prescription, and while I was waiting for it, I turned around and saw my sister--!"

  "Not so loud, Merrick, please," said Maris, looking at him with troubled eyes.

  "Well, it's a serious matter!" said the boy angrily.

  "Yes, I know, but we mustn't let Mother hear. Now, Gwyneth, tell me all about it. How did you happen to be there? You told me that Mrs. Howard never let Erminie go out evenings. That was why I was willing for you to stay over there. You knew Mother wouldn't want you to be going out with big boys in the evening."

  "Well, but Maris, it was just to the drugstore and it was only Erminie's cousin and his friend. And there wasn't any dessert for dinner, 'cause the maid was out, and we were hot and thirsty and--"

  "Do you mean that Mrs. Howard told you to go? Did she say it to you, Gwyneth?"

  "Why, no, it was Erminie who went upstairs and asked her."

  "Did you hear her ask her?"

  "No, I was downstairs talking to the boys, but she came down and said her mother said it was all right to go anywhere the boys wanted to take us, and they were going to take us afterward to the movies. They said it was a swell picture, and we ought to see it!" Gwyneth burst into tears again at the thought of her humiliation and loss.

  "Well, I wouldn't be so sure Mrs. Howard knows anything about it, Gwyneth. I never did trust Erminie. But whether she said so or not, I'm sure Mother wouldn't approve. And as for going to the movies with boys, you know she wouldn't like that. I think if Merrick will run over to the Howards' and get your suitcase, we'll just bring this visit to a close."

  "Sure I will," said Merrick.

  "Oh, Maris!" Gwyneth began to cry again, with heartrending sobs. "Then I can't go to school, and I'll not get promoted!"

  Maris sat down beside her on the sofa and gathered her resisting young form into her arms.

  "Listen, little sister, you mustn't cry so loud. You don't want to kill your dear mother, do you? And we'll talk about the school afterward. It is more important to take good care of you than to have you pass your examination."

  "But I was being taken perfectly good care of," she argued. "I wasn't really sure I was going to the movies, only they told me it would be something I ought to see. And Rance Mosher is a perfectly nice boy. He was awfully polite to me. He said I had nice eyes and he liked me, and he treated me just as if I'd been a lady. Merrick just doesn't like him, that's all; he was always fighting him when they were in school. Erminie says it's because Merrick stole Rance's girl once----"

  "Look here, Gwynnie, you're talking about something you don't understand in the least," said Merrick severely. "I never stole Rance's girl. I didn't like her and didn't want her. But the girl came and asked me to take her home from the senior party because Rance was so drunk she was afraid of him, if you want to know the truth! And I know a lot of things about Rance that I'd be ashamed to tell you. If you knew all I know about him, all I've seen myself, you would run from him worse than you would from a rattlesnake."

  Gwyneth went into another fit of sobbing then, and Maris signed to Merrick to go after the suitcase and explain to Mrs. Howard that they needed Gwyneth at home.

  "But I'm the head of my class, Maris! I'll l–l––lose my s–s–standing in s–s–school!" wailed the little girl.

  "It's a great deal better to lose your standing in school than to lose your standing at home, and in the town, and"--she hesitated at the word that came to her lips and then finished, almost in awe at herself--"and before God!"

  The child lifted her wet eyes wonderingly.

  "What do you mean, Maris? How could I lose my standing at home, or in the town, or even before God by eating ice cream in the drugstore?"

  "You could lose your standing at home by not keeping your word about staying in the house when you knew what Mother and Father would feel about your running around the streets at night after dark with older boys, even if they were Erminie's cousins! You could lose your standing in the town by letting yourself be associated even for a little while with boys who do not have a good reputation. You can lose a reputation very easily, but it's not so easy to get it back again. And then, Gwynnie, there are other things; I would rather Mother told you about them, as she once told me when I was a little older than you, but it is never good for little girls to run around with boys much older than they are. It isn't natural, unless they're related to you. Lots of harmful things grow out of such friendships. I haven't time to tell you about them tonight. I'm very tired, and so are you. But it's better for you to stay at home. I've needed you ever since you went away."

  "But--my s–school!" began Gwyneth again.

  "We'll talk about the school tomorrow and see if anything can be done about it. In the meantime, go to bed, and let's wait till another day."

  But it was some time before she got the child quieted down and in bed, and even after she was asleep from sheer exhaustion, Maris found her catching her breath now and then in another sob.

  The plot thickened. Problems on every hand. Gwyneth was another! And little Lexie, tossing and turning and crying out in delirium was the next one. Would the doctor never come?

  Very late that night after the doctor's visit, when she had made the little girl as comfortable as possible and stood watching the nurse and the doctor in a grave talk down the hall, of which she could make nothing, she crept to her bed, too weary to try to think. As she sank away into a restless sleep, it seemed to her that all about her room were standing those problems. The wedding invitations slithering across the floor in a white heap as if they had done their best to attract her attention, the two dresses like ghosts of enemies in opposite corners, the shadowy parties grouped here and there about the room; and in the midst of them all, stalking in as she dropped from consciousness, stood Tilford and his mother watching her with angry, questioning eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Over at the old Maitland place matters were moving along at a very satisfactory pace for the little boys who were temporarily parked there.

  "Well, boys, we've received our orders from headquarters, and now we've got to get to work," said Lane Maitland as he came back from his brief interview with Maris. "There are two more beds to be put in shape before dark, and the commissary department has got to rustle some food for supper. Tomorrow our old cook and her husband are arriving and we'll have more leisure for amusement, but tonight we've got to get busy. How about jumping in the car and going down to the store with me? I need to lay in a supply of good things. What do you like best to eat?"

  "Ice cream!" said Alec promptly.

  "Aw, shucks! You can eat ice cream anytime if you get a nickel. How about hot dogs and cook 'em outdoors? That's more like camping."

  "Well, how about both?" said Lane.

  "Okay!" shouted both boys at once.

  "Or how about strawberries? Does anybody like strawberries?"

  "We sure do!" shouted Alec.

  "Well, there used to be strawberries down in the garden. Let's go see if they have been choked out by weeds. There might be a few, you know, and then we could save the ice cream till tomorrow."

  So they tramped down to the old overgrown garden and discovered a few late berries here and there, tasting more like wild ones than the old rare varieties that used to be cultivated in the years when the Maitlands were living there. The host went into the house and brought out a dish, and eager young fingers managed to fill a bowl in spite of the many surreptitious journeys they made to eager young mouths.

  "Pretty nice work, old man," said Maitland when Alec brought him the bowl. "All right, now we have our dessert, we'll go down to the store and get our supplies. We'll need soap, and bread, and
marshmallows to toast, and bacon for breakfast, and eggs. You like bacon and eggs, don't you, boys? And cream on your strawberries?"

  "Oh sure!"

  "And toasted marshmallows?"

  "I should say! Oh boy! This is going to be great!"

  "Sure! We're going to have the time of our lives!"

  "We sure are!" said Eric.

  "Oh boy, don't I wish our new brother-in-law was going to be like you!" said Alec wistfully. "Then I wouldn't mind Maris getting married so much."

  "Oh, do you mind her getting married?" asked the young man, busying himself about putting the strawberries in the window where they would be cool.

  "Why, sure we mind. Wouldn't you?" said Eric with a frown. "Wouldn't you mind having your best sister taken away from you entirely?"

  "Oh, maybe it won't be like that," said Maitland, trying to be matter-of-fact. "Maybe your new brother-in-law will be great. Perhaps you don't know him. Wait till you know him," he added hopefully.

  "Who, Tilford? Not he!" sighed Eric hopelessly. "He's a snob. He's some swell! He can't take a joke, nor see one. He hates kids, and anyway, we never would get to know him. He doesn't like us. He always acts as if we didn't exist."

  "Well, let's forget it for tonight and have a good time, what do you say?"

  "Okay!" said the boys, and they climbed eagerly into the car and were off to the store. And how they did enjoy going around the store picking out things they thought might be needed.

  They made a fire out in the backyard and cooked their sausages, made some cocoa there, too, and when they had eaten their strawberries with plenty of cream and sugar, they were really too full to hold another crumb of anything.

  "And now," said Maitland cheerfully, "we'll wash up the dishes and go up and get our beds in order. After that, it will be time to turn in."

  "So soon?" said the boys, who hated to lose a minute of this grand picnic.

  "Oh, people always go to bed early when they are at camp. It's one of the rules, you know."

  So they submitted and hurried back and forth to the house, bringing supplies and dishes and washing up.

  Merrick came over with a suitcase of garments while they were making their beds, and grinned as they both tried to talk at once, telling him about their supper out of doors.

  "That's all right, kids, but if I hear of you making any trouble over here, I'll come over and lam you one you won't forget, and I don't mean maybe."

  They promised good behavior and dived into the suitcase, arraying themselves for the night.

  Merrick reported that there was little or no change in the sick ones and looked gravely troubled as he said it, and when he was gone, Maitland ordered lights out and everybody kneeling for prayers. He suggested that they pray for their mother and little sister. And then suddenly serious boys knelt and were very quiet for a long minute, beside their cots, till Maitland's voice broke in upon their devotions.

  "Dear Lord, we want to thank You for being with us all day and keeping guard over us and those we love. Keep guard over us during the night, both here and at the home house, and especially be with the sick ones. If it's Your will, make them better in the morning. And help these boys to be strong and courageous and to conquer themselves so that they will be ready to help in this time of stress. Teach them to trust themselves to Thee. We ask it in Christ's name."

  Subdued and quiet, they got into bed, and it was all still about them. They lay for a while thinking of their mother and the terrible possibilities that life held, life that had been so bright and engaging before this. They realized that God had bent down and was taking account of them, that they were, perhaps, in His eye more than they had thought. It was barely possible that He expected something of even them--just boys. They hadn't thought of that before.

  But long after they fell asleep, Lane Maitland lay across the room from them and thought of the girl in the next house who was bearing so many burdens just now. The girl he used to know so well and who had grown even lovelier than she had been when they were in school together!

  He thought of what the little boys had said about her fiancé. Was that just children's chatter? Was the man her equal? Was he worthy of so lovely a girl? He sighed as he thought about it. Well, it was not for him to think about. He would like to help her somehow, but that was not his job of course. Only it would be nice to know that someone was taking it over and doing it well. She needed comforting, he was sure, for she had looked terribly troubled that afternoon, and she had been grateful that he was looking after the boys. Well, he could at least do that. They were lively youngsters, and there was no place for such eager, thoughtless vitality around sick people. Now, he must just stop thinking about that girl. She belonged to another man.

  But it was not easy to turn his thoughts away from the affairs of these dear old friends of his boyhood days. The more perhaps because he had so recently lost his parents and was practically alone in the world. For hours he lay thinking and finally got up to look out the window toward the house next door and observe the lighted windows. They were not getting much rest over there, he was sure, for he could see shadows of moving forms now and again. He longed to know how the battle with death in one room, and with disease in another, was going. How would the others stand up under this hard time?

  And while all this was going on, up in the Thorpe mansion on the side of the town always designated as "the Hill," the family was having a counsel of war.

  Tilford had not gone to his sister's dinner. Since his fiancée for whom the dinner was given could not be there, it would certainly look better for him to stay away, too. So he stayed at home with his father and mother in a gloomy silence and ate in an offended way through an excellent dinner.

  "Well, really, Tilford, what happy circumstance has made you a guest in your home after your many and continued absences?" the father asked facetiously as Tilford walked into the dining room and took his seat.

  "Don't try to be funny, Dad!" said Tilford heavily. "It's anything but a happy circumstance. I'm on the verge of insanity with all that has happened, and it seems impossible to work anything out that will better matters."

  "Ah, indeed! I haven't heard of an impending disaster. Am I to be favored with a recital, or would you prefer to suffer in secret?"

  "You're so trifling, Dad, no wonder you don't hear the news. But of course you'll have to know," sighed Tilford heavily. "The whole trouble is with Maris's family. They have seen fit to throw a panic into the camp. I haven't been able as yet to ascertain whether it is something they planned in order to annoy us and assert their own importance, or whether it is just upset nerves, or what. But the long and short of it is that Maris's mother had some sort of a nervous upset this morning, fainted away or something, and they are making a mountain out of it. Maris declares she can't go to Irma's dinner, given tonight solely to introduce Maris to our friends. She has got hystericky and declares her mother is at the point of death and she can't leave her. I have tried my best to reason with her, but all to no avail, and then as if that wasn't enough, her baby sister comes home from kindergarten with the measles! Imagine it! Such a plebian, common little childish ailment! And Maris insists she has to care for her. And she wouldn't be moved even when I secured a special child's nurse and offered to pay her myself."

  The father watched his son seriously.

  "Well, now, that's too bad. Her mother sick! That's hard on a girl, I imagine. I don't see that that's anything to be so disturbed about, her not going to a dinner. Anybody would understand that. I thought she was a very nice, sweet little girl myself when she was here last night. I thought you had made a very wise choice, and we are going to like her a lot. She'll fit right in with our family beautifully. Didn't you think so, Mama?"

  "You don't understand, Mr. Thorpe," said his wife. She always called him Mr. Thorpe before the servants. "It's just her family trying to get in the public eye. They are very plain people and not in our class at all, and they're taking this opportunity, just at the most inconve
nient time, to try to force themselves into the foreground. That mother has kept up all through the weeks perfectly well. She has seemed pleased enough at the way things were going, and she hasn't broken down. People don't break down all at once like that. If she has kept up so long and perfectly healthy, why should she suddenly start up and faint away? And what's a little faint anyway? I've had more than one myself, but I never let it interfere with my social duties nor embarrass my family. But she, just the very day those invitations should have gone out, she chooses to collapse and scare the bride out of her wits. I say it's premeditated. She's just trying to force us to recognize her and show how important she is by putting a stop to all the festivities. Imagine daring to do that to Tilford's family, after all we've done for her."

  "Why, now, Mama! What have we done for her?" Mr. Thorpe looked over his glasses and regarded his wife leniently.

  "Done for her! Do you have to ask? Haven't we taken her up and made much of her, put her right on a pedestal, just as if she belonged in our set, and got her all these invitations among our social equals?"

  "Social equals? Why, Mama, what kind of an idea have you got of the Mayberrys? Don't you know I looked them up and they really belong to one of the fine old families?"

  "Well, that may all be very well, Mr. Thorpe. Old families, yes. But old families without money degenerate. They live on the lower side of town, don't they? They live in an old rack-a-bones of a house that needs painting terribly, and they go to a strange little church without a particle of style to it and then insist on having the wedding, our wedding, in their own church, when I had gone to the trouble of asking our rector if they might have the use of our great beautiful church edifice, with its stately arches and lovely chancel. It lends itself so gracefully to a formal wedding. I even offered to superintend the decorations myself. But no, they had to have their own ugly little church and minister. I declare it's too vexing. And then she insists she is going to wear some little frowsy dress that her mother has made, instead of a perfectly exquisite imported one that I suggested. She is certainly being too trying for anything. Do you know, Mr. Thorpe, that those wedding invitations haven't gone out yet? And this is the day they should have been mailed! Of course, she is utterly ignorant of all social customs. But Tilford exerted his utmost influence and can't make her give them to him. She declares her mother is at the point of death and she can't send them out at present. And here are we all disgraced by having the invitations go out a day late."