Maris

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Tilford lit a cigarette and flung himself down in a white brocade chair, his hat slung to the back of his handsome head, his haggard eyes fixed angrily on his mother.

  "Can that stuff!" he said fiercely. "You don't think I'm going to give her up after all of this, do you? You don't think I'm going to have the whole town see me trampled underfoot and scorned, do you? Not if the whole generation of Mayberrys drive you out of their house. I'm in this thing to win, and I'm not going to be beaten off. After all, you had it coming to you. I told you you wouldn't get anywhere with that stubborn little woman. She's playing to win, but she's going to get the surprise of her life when she sees how things come out. I've got my plans all laid, and I'm going to win! Don't ask me anything about it. Just be ready to do whatever I tell you when the time comes. We may not have any wedding on June thirtieth, in their little old dinky church, but we'll have a wedding all right, and don't you forget it. And we're sailing as per scheduled, too. And when she's married and finds herself out on the ocean, I guess she'll sing another tune."

  "Now, Tilly!" said his mother with apprehension. "What are you going to do? You mustn't do anything scandalous! You mustn't get us in the papers."

  "Oh, no! Don't you worry about that," bragged the young man. "I'll attend to what gets in the papers. I'll send in the write-up myself, just what I want printed. There won't be any scandal except in the eyes of her precious family. I'll fix it so there will be plenty for them to contemplate."

  "Oh, Tilford! You frighten me! You haven't been drinking, have you? You don't sound like yourself!"

  "Well, if I have, is it your business?" he asked in a surly tone. "I can look out for myself, can't I? You brought me up to drink like a gentleman."

  "Oh, Tilford!" wailed his mother. "You are being rude to me. If I brought you up to anything at all, I brought you up to be courteous!"

  "Courtesy be hanged! I'm done with the things you brought me up to. I'm going to get my wife the way I please, and you can take the consequences."

  "Oh, Tilly! You have been drinking. You never spoke to me like that before! You certainly must be drunk!" wailed his mother, looking at his wild eyes in horror.

  Suddenly the father's substantial form loomed large and impressive in the doorway.

  "Tilford!" his voice thundered. "You're forgetting yourself! Get out of your mother's room at once! Come with me!"

  Tilford turned, bewildered. His father's voice was reminiscent of his childhood days when at rare intervals the usually loving, indulgent father became a stern parent and administered a long-needed chastisement most thoroughly, so that it was not soon forgotten.

  Mr. Thorpe's large, strong hand laid hold on his son's arm and propelled him out of the room and down the hall to his own room.

  "Now!" he said, eyeing the young man with mingled sorrow and disgust. "See if you can get yourself sobered up. You're not fit to be around decent people, and when you're sober, perfectly sober, I've something to say to you that will be to your advantage!"

  "Now look here, Dad, you've no right to treat me this way. I'm a man! I have rights!"

  "Oh, are you? You don't look like one! Look at your clothes. You appear to have been on a brawl for several days! You need a bath and some clean clothes. But even they wouldn't make a man of you, I'm afraid. Take off those clothes! Get under a cold shower and come to your senses. Get in there, I say!" And he took hold of his son's arm and literally shoved him into the luxurious bathroom.

  "Let me alone! You've no right--!" protested the angry son.

  "Oh, haven't I? Well, we'll see!" And the father deliberately took the key out of the door and put it into the other side of the lock.

  "Now, stay in here until you've had a bath and are fully sober!" he said. "I'll be back in half an hour, and if you have come to yourself, I'll let you out." The father shut the door and turned the key in the lock, then strode down the hall again to his own domain, called by his wife a "den," and shut himself in.

  A moment later, Mrs. Thorpe in an elaborate, frilly dressing gown of grass green, her feet thrust into green satin mules that flapped as she waddled so that she had to change them for bed socks because they made too much noise, stole cumbersomely down the hall, with a furtive backward glance toward the den. She arrived breathlessly at her son's door, tried it and entered, gave a frightened glance about, and immediately located a sound in the bathroom. She hurried to the door and found it locked.

  "Tilford!" she whispered softly. "Mother's precious boy!"

  "Oh, shut up!" roared Tilford angrily. "Will you get out? Can't I take a bath without being trailed?"

  Mrs. Thorpe heard the far sound of an opening door up the hall and beat a hasty retreat, making a dive into the sewing room and coming back with a pair of scissors and a thimble in her hand as if she had gone after them, in case she met her husband.

  But the door of the den was closed again and she was not bothered. She retired to her bedroom to sob over the sorrows of the woman who had an ungrateful child and couldn't do anything about it.

  Exactly half an hour afterward, Tilford sat in a big comfortable chair in his own room, clothed and to a degree in his right mind, sulking.

  His father entered the room, but he did not look up or notice him.

  His father sat down in a straight chair, clasped his hands firmly together in front of him, leaned forward a little, and gazed steadily at the graceful form of this handsome youth attired in a costly silk dressing gown and expensive shoes. There was something unutterably wistful in his father's expression as he looked at his boy and saw in retrospect the whole span of his life so far from babyhood. There was a depth of sadness in his eyes that told how much of a bitter disappointment that young life had been to him, the father.

  When Mr. Thorpe broke the silence that was becoming painful to them both, his voice had a businesslike crispness that belied his expression.

  "Now, Tilford, have you recovered your sanity enough to understand what I am about to say, or shall I have to wait until you have had a sleep?"

  "Don't be an ass!" was the boy's disrespectful reply.

  "That will do. Don't add to your troubles by being insolent to your father. Are you sober yet?"

  Tilford summoned all the dignity belonging to past generations.

  "Certainly. I have been sober all the time."

  "No, you were not sober. If you had been, you should certainly suffer more than I am going to mete out to you at present. But I want you to understand that you cannot speak to your mother in the way I heard you speak. It is inexcusable, and I will not stand for it. If it is ever repeated, you will discover that I have power to make you exceedingly sorry that you ever did it. Your fortune, you know, is all in my hands, and I shall certainly not leave a cent to a young man who does not treat his mother decently."

  "Oh, Dad! How tiresome you are! Mother's such a fool! She won't let a fellow alone!"

  "Exactly. According to you, your father's an ass and your mother's a fool. Then may I ask, what are you? I think it might be well for you to reflect for a while over that question, when you have a little leisure from your own important affairs."

  The boy flung himself about in his chair, leaning over with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, and groaned aloud: "Oh, why do I have to be tormented this way, when I already have enough trouble to drive a hundred men insane?"

  The father's face softened, and a tortured look came into his eyes.

  "Son, I know you are unhappy, but this is something basic that must be maintained, no matter what you are suffering. You must never lower yourself, no matter what you are going through, to be insolent to your mother, and I demand that before you do anything else you go to your mother and apologize."

  "What nonsense!" flung out Tilford. "I am not a little kid!"

  "No," said the father with a sigh, "I wish that you were! I would certainly try to wail some sense into you. But you are supposed to be a gentleman. At least you were born one, and I intend to try and keep you one
if I have to fling every cent I might leave to you into the depths of the sea. I may not be very wise about raising children and I may not know anything about philosophy or religion, but that is one thing you know I have always insisted upon, that you shall be respectful to your mother. Now, Tilford, before I say anything more to you, I want you to go across the hall and beg your mother's pardon."

  "Gosh, Dad! Of all the silly baby ideas!"

  "If you keep on, you'll have a few more apologies to make before you get through. I intend to see this through to the end."

  There was a long silence, and then Tilford arose haughtily, contemptuously.

  "All right! Let's have it over with," he said. "Do I go alone, or are you coming along to see whether I do it right?"

  "I'm coming along!" said his father with dignity.

  Silently they went across the hall, the door opened to the mother's astonished eyes, and the two entered.

  Tilford stood like one himself aggrieved and made a scornful apology.

  "Mother, Dad seems to think I was rude to you. I sincerely apologize. I have been so much upset the past few days that I scarcely knew what I was doing anyway."

  "Yes, of course, my dear!" murmured the mother with a gush of tears. "Don't think any more about it, Tilly dear!"

  Then the young man turned away with a look of disgust.

  "Is that all, Dad? Or is there more to this?"

  The father answered sadly, "If that is the best you can do, we will let that go for the present and you and I will return to my library."

  "Heavens and earth!" exclaimed the irascible youth. But he followed his father across the hall and stood at the window scowling, awaiting the next act.

  "Sit down, Tilford."

  His father's voice was almost tender now.

  "Tilford, perhaps you don't know how your father's heart has been yearning over you these last few days. I couldn't help but see that something was wrong when I got back from Chicago. But your mother was so upset over you that I hardly liked to ask her for particulars. Suppose you try to tell me the details. Is Maris still in trouble? Is her mother no better?"

  "Oh, gosh! Dad! Have I got to go into all that? No, her mother isn't any better; at least they won't admit she is. And Maris hasn't sent out the invitations and thinks she can't get married on June thirtieth, and that leaves me all up a tree. What am I to do? She's given me back my ring and lets on it's all over between us."

  "Well, but let's understand this, son. What did you do to get her into a state that she wanted to give back your ring? Were you kind and helpful to her in her distress when her mother was sick? Did you offer to do anything you could?"

  "I? What could I do? I couldn't get a chance even to talk to her for more than a minute. She comes downstairs with a hot-water bottle, or to get a bowl of ice or something, and has to run right back upstairs before she hardly gets down. She won't send out the invitations, nor let me send them. Helpful? I? Certainly, I tried to be. I offered to get those invitations off in plenty of time. But no, she wouldn't even tell me where they were. Said she couldn't send out invitations when her mother was at the point of death. Said her kid sister had measles and she couldn't do anything but hover over her family day and night. She looks like an old crow with black circles under her eyes! Pretty bride she'll be! Helpful and kind? Why, I even got a special child's nurse to go there and tend that hateful little spoiled brat so Maris could go out and keep her engagements with me. Would she go? Not she. Said she'd send the nurse away if I sent her. Said the kid wanted her or her mother."

  "Of course. What could you expect?"

  "Expect? I'd expect her to take the help I gave and do her duty toward me. Isn't that what being engaged means?"

  "No, I wouldn't say so. She can't leave her duty at home when they are in trouble. You ought to have tried to enter into her troubles and sympathize with her. You ought to have tried to find out her burdens and help to lighten them."

  "Well, I did. Certainly, I did. There was the matter of a suitable wedding dress for the kind of wedding due our family. Mother found a peach of a dress and suggested she go and see it. Would she go? Not one step. I tried to explain that Mother had had it reserved for her at a special price, but no, she said her mother had made a dress for her! Imagine a mother being able to make a good enough dress for our wedding! And when I tried to exercise my authority and tell her she had no right to carry things with such a high hand, she gets mad and flings me back my ring."

  "Son, look here! I don't know what is the matter with you. You have a wonderful little girl in that Mayberry child, and you don't seem to know it. You shouldn't try to order her ways, you shouldn't tell her what to wear, and you shouldn't expect her to leave a sick mother and sister. There are such things as right and wrong in this world, though the young people of today don't seem to recognize that anymore. You've probably hurt that child more than she has hurt you. I don't know whether you've got it in you to love her the way she ought to be loved and guarded or not. And I don't know her well enough to know whether she loves you well enough to stand your doldrums and tantrums or not, but I should say there was just one thing that would set you two right, if you can be set right, and that is for you to get down on your knees and be a little humble. Take your ring back to her and tell her you have seen yourself, and you are ashamed of yourself. Tell her you've been a fool and an ass yourself and ask her to forgive you. If you do that, and she really loves you, she's bound to forgive you, and you can start all over again. If she doesn't really love you, then it's all wrong from the beginning and better broken up.

  "But son, you'll have to make a concession! When you ask her to forgive you, you've got to tell her you're willing to put the wedding off till she's ready and that you'll come and help her nurse her sick ones back to health and comfort her and sympathize with her. You'll have to tell her that it's grand for her to have a mother who can make a wedding dress for her daughter and that of course she must wear that dress and no other, whether our world or her world or anybody else's world considers it the latest thing or not. There is something rare in a dress that a mother's love prepares. But, my son, I'll miss my guess if you don't find that dress quite the fit thing after all. The mother of that girl wouldn't want her to wear anything that wasn't all right. Don't you know enough to know that? Now go get your evening togs on and run over to her house and say you're sorry, and you'll see how quickly your troubles will smooth out."

  The son whirled on his father with a great scorn in his face, a perfect fury of indignation in his voice: "Me go and tell Maris I'm sorry? Not on your life I won't! Do you suppose I'm going to do the little whipped-dog act you've done all your life, giving in to every blessed thing Mother has demanded? Not me. I know my way around better than that! I'll get her back, don't you fear, but it won't be that way! Not on my life it won't!" And the son angrily slammed out and down the hall to his own room and locked himself in.

  The father sat stricken in his chair, with his face buried in his hands, and let the whole disappointment of the years roll over him. That was what he was in his family! A little whipped dog! And his son, the hope of his failing years, had told him so! There was nothing he could think of that life had to offer so bitter as that.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The nurse who had come to relieve Miss Bonner was most kind and helpful. She didn't stay during the daytime usually. Her home was not far away, and she went home to her own bed to sleep when her night's work was done. But now and then she would run in an hour or two earlier than she was due to begin work and suggest that she look after Lexie while Maris ran out to get a breath of fresh air or do an errand. Lexie had become very fond of her. She was Scottish and had a store of quaint little stories about foxes and birds and "beasties" as she called them. She had a Scottish accent that fascinated the little girl, and a winning way with her, as well as a deep fund of humor. Lexie always greeted her with delight.

  She came over thus one afternoon when Maris was particularly worn and discou
raged, and with a sigh of relief Maris went downstairs, glad to get away for a few minutes from the scene of hard work and anxiety.

  Maris went through the downstairs rooms. All was in order. There was nothing here that demanded her attention. She had already gathered all the bills out of Mother's desk and attended to them, hunted up estimates from florists and caterers and let them know that the wedding was called off on account of illness in the family, and written notes to her bridesmaids and a few intimate friends who knew about the wedding plans. There was absolutely nothing to demand her hands to work or tired brain to think.

  She went out into the kitchen, but Sally had it immaculate. Preparations for the family dinner were in progress as they should be at that hour. The specially prepared dishes and trays that would be needed for the invalids were in the icebox in order, and she could hear Sally stepping around in her own room just off the kitchen, getting into a clean dress to serve the evening meal. There was no reason why she should linger here.

  She stepped out of the back door and looked up into the cherry tree, laden with its brilliant fruit, and reached up idly and picked a cluster, eating them as she walked on around the back door and into the garden. She had a strangely desolate feeling that she was all alone in the world. And there was no one to turn to for a comfort of which she felt in sudden terrible need. She told herself that this was what came from relaxing even for a minute in the midst of hard work and anxiety. It was better to keep right on and not take time off with the beautiful world in June, when all the things that belonged in such a June life were hanging in jeopardy. Here was she who was to have been married in lovely grandeur and off on a dream trip to foreign lands in just a few days now, suddenly snatched from all this idyll of a luxurious life and plunged into heavy hard work in desperate anxiety, shot through here and there by stinging annoyances from people who ought to have been her strongest reliance, and finally separated entirely from them and left to go alone. It was strange! So strange!