Maris

by Grace Livingston Hill

  But the third night, during a respite, when Lexie seemed to be definitely better and was sleeping quietly and their mother was at least still with them, it did occur to her that perhaps Tilford had called and Sally had said she was busy. That would be like Sally. Sally was not given to graciousness. And after all, Tilford had his rights.

  Or did he? Had he perhaps taken his ring with all it stood for and was counting himself free? Well, if he was like that, she couldn't help it, and it was better to find it out now rather than when she was married to him. But she was too tired to think about it and dropped into a deep sleep.

  The doctor came earlier than usual the next morning. He shooed them all away and stayed in their mother's room a long time. When he came out, he called them into the living room, and his manner was graver than usual.

  "I want to tell you all the whole situation," he said, looking straight into the anxious eyes of Mr. Mayberry. "I haven't told you much before because I wanted to be entirely sure, and I didn't want to give you hope if there wasn't any. But I'm telling you now, Mrs. Mayberry has a clot of blood in one of the valves of the heart. It is a very serious condition, and one that may take her away in a moment's time. But at the same time if she can be kept alive, and kept absolutely still, I mean still, without moving hand or foot, for six weeks, it is possible that the condition may clear up and she may get well. I must tell you frankly that there isn't much hope for that, but there is a little hope, and you as a family can do a great deal to help this hope become a reality."

  There was a tenseness in the room during this quiet speech that was fairly electric. Gwyneth in a frightened huddle by the piano gave a little gasp and put down her young head on her folded arms on the closed lid, but no one else stirred. Maris could not have gotten whiter than she already was, but her eyes seemed to grow wider and darker as she faced the doctor, and Merrick stood with folded arms just inside the door, his young face stern with purpose.

  It was the father who lifted his bowed head with a sudden light in his eyes and spoke in a husky voice, but vibrant with a new hope.

  "I need not tell you, Doctor," he said, "that we will everyone do all that is in our power to keep our dear one with us!"

  Even in this darkest trouble there was something about their father's voice that the children would never forget. Gwyneth lifted up her pretty little sorrowful face streaming with tears and looked at him, signing, as it were, her own small name to his promise. Merrick murmured hoarsely, "We sure will!" and turned away toward the window to hide his emotion. And Maris, wide-eyed, white-lipped, recognized that God had accepted her sacrifice and was putting her to the test, but her voice was clear and resolute as she said, "Of course," without any reservations.

  "Well, now, of course I knew you would feel that way, and I'm glad to have been able to give you even an atom of hope. But you'll have to know all this entails. It will mean, first of all, a quiet house. It will probably mean another nurse so that the one you already have shall not give out before we are done, for Mrs. Mayberry must be watched every minute and run no risks of any interruption to her literally immovable condition. It is a state of things that could be better carried out to the letter in a hospital, but I do not dare risk transferring her to a hospital in her present state; therefore, we will have to bend conditions to meet the necessity and make a hospital out of this house, and to that end everything else must have second place. She must have nothing to frighten or startle her, nothing whatsoever to worry her."

  The eyes of the family assented to all he said and pledged their all to carry out his instructions.

  "If, at the end of six weeks, I find Mrs. Mayberry's condition such as I hope, then as soon as she is able to be moved she should be taken to a quiet, restful place that I have in mind where I am hoping she will in a few months regain her normal health."

  He gave them a swift, anxious glance and then went on: "Now I realize that even with the slight hope I have been able to give you, these conditions will be hard for you all to bear and will very much upset your life as a family, yet I am relying on you all. With your help, much can be done!"

  He finished with a grave, sweet smile that endeared him to them all as they realized that he had at least taken away their utter hopelessness and given them a chance to do something for the beloved mother.

  Then came the father's voice: "Nothing will be too hard for us to bear if we may have our dear one back among us again!" And Maris and Merrick looked at the sudden new light that was growing in their father's eyes. Yes, their father was wonderful. They left the room with a kind of triumphal awe in their hearts that they had such a father and mother.

  Half an hour later, Tilford's car drew up in front of the house and Maris, looking out of the window just in time to see him coming up the walk, realized that her time of testing had arrived.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Merrick had lingered in the hall until his father came out with the doctor, lingered as they stood at the door talking for a minute, and then, as the doctor left, he put his hand on his father's arm and spoke earnestly.

  "Dad," he said, "you can count on me for every ounce that's in me. I got a job last night driving a bus on the pike. I begin as soon as exams are over. The pay isn't great, but every cent of it's yours, and at least it'll help out for the extra nurse, and maybe a little over for what I eat. And when I get something better, I'll lift all the burden I can from you!"

  The father looked up and could not conquer the feeling in his voice.

  "Son!" he said. "Dear son! Thank God for such a son!" And then he went upstairs wiping his eyes.

  Merrick, his heart full of love and anxiety for the father who had seemed so stricken and was struggling so bravely to have courage to go on, looked after him until he heard him go into Mother's room and softly close the door, and then Merrick went out the door and through the hedge to the Maitland house to tell his new friend what the doctor had said.

  He found Lane out in the backyard superintending a painting job. He traced him by the sound of eager young voices, punctuated now and then by an older voice of instruction.

  Lane gave one glance at Merrick's face and knew he had news.

  "I've engaged some painters," he explained with a wink at the brother. "I'm glad you sent over those overalls. They just came in handy. This house has needed painting for some time, so the boys are going to try their hand at doing the back kitchen for a start. We have a good strong ladder, and it isn't far to the roof, even if they do take a drop now and then."

  He grinned at Merrick.

  "But they don't know how to paint," said Merrick. "They'll make a mess of it!"

  The two little boys cast anxious eyes at their brother. Was he going to spoil everything for them now, just when they were having the time of their lives? They looked fearsomely toward their host. But he only smiled and shook his head.

  "You're mistaken," he said. "They are doing admirably. I gave them a lesson on painting just now. Not that I know so much myself about it, you know, but they are following my instructions to the letter. Let's you and I go over there under the trees and sit down a bit and talk. That's right, boys, long, smooth strokes and not too much paint on the brush."

  "Say, you're some friend!" said Merrick in admiration. "I don't think we're ever going to be able to thank you for what you're doing for these kids."

  "Don't try," said Lane dryly. "I'm just having a chance to give a little back for what your mother did for me when I had typhoid fever. And incidentally, these fellows are helping me through a very hard time. You know, it hasn't been an easy thing for me to come back all alone to this house where I was so happy. I knew things here had to be looked after or they would go to wrack and ruin. So I came on to put the house in shape to sell. Then I was going to get away as quickly as I could. But these fellows have just helped me over the hard part and made me feel I love the old place almost too much to leave it. Here, get into that hammock, boy! You look as if you hadn't had a wink of sleep all night. Now, get on w
ith your story. The boys won't hear; they're too intent on seeing how much paint they can slap on a single board. How are things over at the house? Any worse?"

  "No! No worse than they have been, I guess, only the doc decided to tell us what was going on, that's all."

  He told briefly what the doctor had said.

  "Well, say, that's good, old fellow! I know it's serious, but it's good, too, to know there is some hope. I've been afraid all along there wasn't. But I knew a man who had that same trouble, and he got over it. He was one of the professors at our college. Everybody thought he was going to die of course, but he came through in fine shape. But he had to lie absolutely still for several weeks. Now, what can we plan that will help things? Why couldn't you all come over here and live until the stress is over? There's plenty of room for everybody, and I could get out if that would make things any easier. Or couldn't you all be spared?"

  "Say, you're great! But I don't think anybody could be spared just at present. Lexie's still in bed, and Gwynnie has to be watched over. She's like a ship without a rudder, that kid, without Mother. But it's great of you to think about it. It's been enough for you to keep those noisy boys. I don't know what we would have done with them over there! They can't keep still a second. Oh, we'll have to talk it over. I don't just know what's coming. The doctor wants Mother to go away when she's able, if she gets well enough, and then I don't know what'll become of everybody."

  "What about the wedding? Will Maris really be going away?"

  "Oh, I suppose so! I haven't asked. I don't know as she's even thought of it yet. But she'll have plenty of thinks coming pretty soon, I reckon. I thought I saw Tilford's car coming down the street as I started over here. He's the limit. It's lucky he's too refined to talk loud, or we might have another catastrophe. If Mother should happen to hear him talk, she might not want to live."

  "Well, look here, Merrick. You quit worrying! There'll be a way. Even if Maris goes off to Europe next week, or is it the week after?--we'll plan a way. You'll have to consider me a real brother and let me in on this thing. Maybe we can work something out. Anyway, it isn't necessary to cross all the bridges on the highway before we come to them. We may find a detour or two and eliminate some of them. But you know, I've got another house down in Virginia. Inherited it from an old aunt who just died, and that can come into the picture, too, if it's necessary. There's a sweet old Scottish lady staying in it now. My aunt left provision in her will for her, and I just asked her to stay on for a while. She used to be my aunt's companion, just an old friend of hers, but a real gentlewoman. We might work her in somehow if we need a woman to look out for the girls. Anyway, don't you worry!"

  "Thanks awfully, Lane! You're great! But whenever I think of the necessity, I'm so mad I can't see. Any other decent man would be willing to put off his wedding awhile, or at least suggest they--well--we wouldn't want him to come here and live with us--that would be the limit. But he won't let Maris off, I know. I've overheard some of the things he's said to her, and he's impossible!"

  Lane Maitland drew his brows down and set his lips firmly for a minute as he stared at Merrick thoughtfully.

  "Of course, Maris ought to be strong enough to resist him," went on Merrick in a discouraged voice, "but I suppose that's a good deal to expect of a girl when her wedding invitations are all out and her man isn't willing."

  "Are they out yet? I wondered."

  "Why, I s'pose they're out. I haven't asked. I know they were all addressed, and I heard him roaring up the stairs at her about them. Everything has to toe the mark to live with him, but I s'pose she'll knuckle down and do just what he wants, and then everything'll be lovely. My sister really has a nice disposition. That is, she did before that bird came around and spoiled everything."

  Meantime, Tilford Thorpe had arrived, and Maris answered Sally's tap on the door, lingered an instant to brush her disordered hair, and then with sudden impulse knelt beside her bed.

  Oh, Lord, she prayed earnestly, help me, please. Show me just what to say. Show me definitely about this whole matter.

  Then with a calmer heart than she had had since her mother had been taken sick, she went quietly down the stairs.

  It was like Tilford to act as if nothing had happened. To start right in on the thing in hand and ignore what had passed, till he got ready to bring it up again and utterly demolish it.

  He was standing out on the doorstep impatiently looking down the street, as if he had no part nor lot in this house and couldn't bear even to come into it. As if he resented that it had any right in Maris.

  He turned, hat in hand, as she arrived in the hall like a shadow of her former self, so white and tired looking, yet somehow more assured and at her ease.

  "Good morning, Maris," he said formally. "Suppose you come outside in the sunshine. It isn't worthwhile for me to run any risks of contagion so near the wedding time now. Mother seems to think I may not have had measles. I just ran down to ask if you had mailed those invitations yet. Because it really is necessary to do so at once. I cannot allow this foolishness to go on any longer. As it is, we shall have to do a lot of explaining. If you will get them for me at once before there can be any further interruption, then my mind will be at ease and we can talk about several other important things that must be settled this morning. Bring the list, too, and I will take them right to my secretary down at the office, and that will be off my mind--that is, if you haven't sent them. Have you?"

  Maris looked at his cold, handsome face and wondered how she had ever thought him lovable. He suddenly seemed so hard and self-centered. Why hadn't she felt this before? Why hadn't she known he would be like this in a time of stress? He hadn't even asked after the sick ones. Just plunged right into the one thing that he was so determined about. But perhaps it was as well. She could more easily say what she had to say if he was this way than if he had been gentle and kind. She studied him for a second before she answered, trying to imagine what it would be like if he should ask her pardon for the way he had talked to her the last time he came; trying to think how it would be if he should draw her into his arms and kiss her tenderly and say how sorry he was that she looked tired and he wished there were some way he could help her.

  But the imagining did not get very far with the screen door between them, and Maris somehow felt repugnance toward going out on the front porch to talk. Tilford was holding the door open for her now, however, and rather than make a scene she came out.

  "Have you sent them?" he reiterated as she stepped out into the sunshine. He could not help but see the ravages of anxiety and loss of sleep now. "Heavens!" he added as he glanced at her. "What a sight you are! You had no right to do this so near to the wedding! You will look so old and worn I shall be ashamed of you. When did you send the invitations, Maris?"

  "The invitations have not gone," said Maris quietly. "I did not send them because I am not going to be married on the thirtieth of June. There would be no point in sending invitations if there was to be no wedding."

  "What do you mean, Maris? You can't possibly change the date! I have all my arrangements made and have gone to a great deal of trouble to get those particular reservations. You can't do that to me."

  "I'm sorry," said Maris calmly. "I did not plan this. I could not help it."

  "Oh, really! Who did plan it? Your family? And just what date are they arranging for the wedding, then? I should have supposed since they are so careful about expense they would have remembered that it would cost a lot more to get the invitations engraved all over again. But perhaps they are figuring to get the town crier to go out and announce the engagement or something of that sort."

  Tilford was very angry. There was a bright red spot on each cheek. His handsome eyes had sparks of wrath in them. He was forgetting himself and being unforgivably and quite plebeianly rude. He seldom allowed himself to overstep a formal address at least, no matter how angry he was.

  Maris's face was desperately white. And her chin was lifted just the least bit.<
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  "My family had nothing whatever to do with it," she said steadily. "They do not even know about it. They have not had time to think about weddings. We have been living in the midst of desperate sorrow here, Tilford. You do not seem to understand."

  "Oh, pardon me! Did your mother die, Maris? Was it as bad as that? I should have supposed you would let me know if that happened. But I don't see why that should delay the wedding. I am sorry for you of course, but your mother is better off, and she wouldn't want you to change your plans. People don't stop for such things nowadays, you know, and since we are going abroad, everybody will understand why we went ahead. Besides, if the funeral is soon, there will be really quite a decent interval between. Since it had to happen, I'm glad it happened now instead of next week. People will understand why we're late in sending invitations."

  Maris looked at him aghast. Had he been drinking? He did drink sometimes at parties and big dinners but not usually at other times. Not in the morning.

  She was so still that he stopped talking and looked at her, puzzled. There were tears in her eyes, but she had that aloof look to which he was not accustomed in her.

  "What's the matter? Why are you looking at me that way? I'm only being perfectly sensible. It's all out of date to be sentimental about the inevitable."

  "Stop!" said Maris suddenly. "My mother is not dead!"

  "Oh!" He looked at her as if she were somehow to blame. "Really, Maris, I don't see why you tried to give me that impression, then. What is it you're trying to do? Just have an argument? Because I haven't time. Won't you get those invitations for me at once, and let us be done with this foolish argument!"

  "Listen, Tilford," she said, trying to control her voice and speak quietly, although the things she wanted to do most of all were to scream and burst into tears and run away from him. "Listen! I'm not going to get those invitations now or any other time because there can't be any wedding on June thirtieth! My mother is very sick. Far worse than we dreamed. She has a clot of blood in the heart, and while the doctor says there is a possibility that she may get well, it is just as possible that she may die at any minute. Under those circumstances, you certainly know that I could not think of leaving home. Even if my mother should get well, it would be at least a year before she would be able to take up her life again and look after her home and children."