Maris

by Grace Livingston Hill

  But to her amazement she found a shrinking in her heart. Was she, then, just angry with him for the way he had treated her in her trouble? Was she perhaps not being fair to Tilford? Had she ever tried to put herself in his place and realize what his side might be? Or had she taken it all out in finding fault with him? Instead of talking things over with him and giving him a chance to suggest that of course she must stay in her home now when they were in trouble, she had given her ultimatum and handed back his ring. Was that right and fair toward the man a girl had accepted? Could he help it that he had a disagreeable, managing, meddlesome mother who overly influenced him? Maybe she should have been more gentle with him and realized that his upbringing had been quite different from hers. Maybe she should have sent for him again and talked it over with him before turning him down so completely.

  Of course, he had been unsympathetic and heartless, but there were influences at home behind that. Maybe she was all wrong. Maybe the new life to which she had just been committing herself as she read the Word of God with enlightenment would require her to ask Tilford's forgiveness, to go on with her marriage possibly, sometime later when conditions at home would allow her to leave. Could that be what God wanted of her?

  All those thoughts followed her like a deadly miasma that arose in her path and seemed to smother her whenever she gave them space.

  All the evening as she read to Lexie, who was growing restless as her normal health returned, as she did the hundred-and-one little tasks that filled the end of the long, wearisome day, these thoughts pursued her. As she went to her room at last to prepare for rest and tried to read her Bible and recall some of the precious things that had gripped her heart, even as she knelt to pray with that new sense upon her of knowing her Lord as she had never known Him before, she kept thinking of Tilford. A great depression filled her spirit, like a premonition of some looming trial yet before her. She tried again and again to shake it off. She tried to regain the joy that had filled her while she was studying that afternoon with Lane, in that clean, healthy, happy atmosphere of sacred things, where heaven was almost as if she could see it with her natural vision.

  At last, unable to banish these things, unable to fix her mind upon her prayer, she cried out in great earnestness, "Oh, Lord! Show me definitely if I am right in what I have done. Show me once for all whether Tilford is a man with whom I could walk through life. Don't let me misjudge him, nor be unfair to him. Show me my own heart. Show me if he really loves me and whether I could love him. I am all bewildered, and I want to do what is right. Should I go back to Tilford sometime and try to lead him to know You?"

  It was a strange prayer, for somehow it seemed to be going against the promptings of her own heart, but she was so tired and didn't understand herself. At last she arose with a feeling that she had put everything in God's hands and could trust and rest.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sun shone forth gorgeously on June the thirtieth, Maris's wedding morning that was to have been. The fact came to her and challenged her attention the first thing when she woke up. Where was Tilford? Was he feeling dreadful about it? Ought she to feel sorry for him? Somehow she couldn't summon any sorrow on that score.

  There was something, however, in the atmosphere, or in her own heart, that tinged the day with regret, some pitiful little harking back to the airy things of the world that had occupied so much of her time lately. How she had hoped for a beautiful June day like this for her wedding day! How she had quoted to herself that foolish little saying "Blessings on the bride that the sun shines on!" and hoped it would be hers. Not that she was superstitious, but it was so nice to have all the silly sayings of the world fit in and be promising.

  And now was the day she had hoped for, a sky without a cloud, a pleasant breeze blowing just a little, the world full of roses and beauty--and no wedding!

  A few tears of hurt pride and broken romance stole out to picket the outpost but were sternly remanded to their own place. Maris meant to have no nonsense today. Not a soul should suspect that she was shaken by the beauty of the day. Indeed, she wasn't even sure she was shaken. It was only that it had come to her with such force last night, and again stronger this morning, that perhaps something more was required of her before this matter was buried forever out of sight. And yet what could she do? Her position had been right. She couldn't have a wedding when Mother and Lexie were sick. That was settled long ago. Even if they were well by some marvelous miracle, well enough for the wedding to go forward, there was no wedding, for there had been no invitations and there were therefore no guests!

  Over and over, these pestering thoughts went rampaging through her mind. She could not understand it. She had been so happy last night out there, turning her thoughts to heavenly things. She had felt that never again would she need to be upset by the things of the world, and now here this morning she was all out of sorts. Not exactly regretting what she had given up, but beset by tormenting thoughts and uncertainties. Tilford would of course have told her that she was worn out nursing her sick sister and taking unnecessary burdens upon herself. But what would Lane Maitland say if he knew? And what would God tell her?

  She did not yet know about the besetments of a Christian life, nor realize that Satan immediately attacks the way of any soul who leaves the ranks of his followers. But at last she realized that to trust God fully was all she could do.

  As the morning wore on, the sun rose hotter, and the air was full of birdsongs and perfume from flowers, but Maris resolutely put all thoughts of disturbing things out of her mind. The matter was settled. It was in God's hands. It was definitely out of hers. If there was anything wrong with what she had done to Tilford, God would surely show her.

  She noticed that her father and Merrick looked at her anxiously when she came down to breakfast. They saw the shadows under her eyes and wondered if she were sorrowing. They could not help but notice that Tilford had not been there for days.

  They were at the table together for a few minutes, and neither Sally nor the nurse was in the room. There was a bit of constraint upon them all, for everybody realized what day this was and what it was to have meant to them as a family. But it was left to Gwyneth to voice the feeling in all their hearts.

  It was just as Sally went out with the empty plate after bringing in more griddle cakes that she mustered the courage. That had been Sally's idea of a proper wedding-day breakfast, griddle cakes and sausage. Sally wanted to make the day as pleasant for Maris as possible.

  "This would have been an awful pretty day for your wedding, Maris, wouldn't it?" Gwyneth said in a wistful little tone. She had been upstairs the night before trying to find her own maid of honor dress and hadn't been able to locate it.

  Maris drew a little quick gasp of a breath and forced a smile.

  "Yes, darling, it's a lovely day," she said, trying to pass it off casually.

  Merrick looked up with a frown and kicked his sister Gwyneth under the table.

  "Tough luck, Maris!" he said in a tone that tried to sound sympathetic.

  Maris looked up with a sudden thrill of pleasure that Merrick, who so obviously had disliked Tilford, should be offering her sympathy. But before she could answer him, her father spoke.

  "Maris, I haven't been saying anything. There really wasn't anything to say. But I want you to know that I--that we all--appreciate the beautiful way you have sacrificed yourself and given up your plans and gone sweetly about the new order of things without a murmur or a sign that you were terribly disappointed. It is a great grief to me. It will be a great grief to your mother when she gets well enough to realize what has gone on, that you should have had to put off your wedding. It seems as if we could never make it up to you. But I hope and pray that the Lord may somehow in the future years give you a good measure of blessing, pressed down and running over, for the hard things you are passing through now."

  Her father's eyes were full of love as he looked at her, and suddenly it seemed to Maris that her heart was so full sh
e could not help breaking down and crying. And she mustn't! No, she mustn't. They wouldn't understand. They would think she was suffering terribly about putting off her wedding. And that was not true. It suddenly became plain to her that whatever God was going to show her as her duty for the future, she was not suffering now, except a little in her worldly pride, that she was not marrying Tilford Thorpe today. It was all at once just as plain as day to her that she did not love him. That she never had loved him the way a girl ought to love the man she was going to marry.

  That might not make any difference with what God would tell her to do in the future. Maybe God would look upon an engagement as too sacred to break, at least at this last minute. But she knew in her heart now that she never should have made it. The thought of marrying Tilford somehow brought a great burden to her.

  Oh, if she could go back and do things over again and walk carefully through her days, waiting on the Lord to send her joy in His own good time and not rushing out to seek it!

  But she was aware that her father was still speaking to her.

  "You know, dear, that just as soon as Mother is really out of danger and Lexie is well enough to be otherwise looked after, we shall want you to go on with your plans. We realize that this must have been a very unhappy thing for Tilford to put up with, and we shall not want you to feel that you must hold up your plans forever--"

  Maris could stand it no longer.

  "Oh, Father dear! Please don't say those things! I ought to have told you all several days ago, only I was so busy, and I sort of wished I could tell Mother first. But I am not going to be married at all. I gave Tilford back my ring and broke the engagement several days ago. I wanted you to know it, but somehow there didn't seem to be any right time to tell you."

  "But, my dear!"

  The father dropped his knife and fork and looked at her in dismay.

  "My dear child! Your mother would not want her illness to have broken up your life and put a great unhappiness upon you."

  "You needn't worry about that, Father. I found out I didn't love Tilford the way I ought to if I were going to marry him. I had begun to suspect it before Mother was taken sick, but it took her illness to make it really plain to me. So no one needs to worry about that. I'm not heartbroken or anything. I'm just glad and thankful I'm here and can help, and rejoice that Mother's still here, too. It would have killed me if I had been married and gone off and then found Mother was sick, and Lexie was sick, and I couldn't get to you!"

  There was a dawning joy on the father's face, but he looked at Maris uncertainly.

  "But, my dear! Isn't that being very unfair to Tilford? Now at this last minute? What will he say to that? Surely he will not give you up so easily!"

  Maris lifted her head a little with a proud tilt.

  "Tilford has known for several days. He has had the ring for nearly two weeks, and still he hasn't been around here for more than a week. You needn't worry about Tilford. He is angry, of course, but I--somehow I don't think Tilford ever really loved me, either, not the way you and Mother love each other.

  "Oh, my dear!" said Mr. Mayberry, and now his face really glowed with joy. "If that is all true, this will be the gladdest house in the universe. You don't know how your mother has worried about you. She felt from the first that Tilford was not the right man for you. But she didn't want to say anything she would have to live down. Oh, my dear! How she will rejoice when she knows it! Oh, I do hope and pray that she may not leave us at least until she knows it."

  Suddenly he got up and came around the table, putting his arms gently around his child, and stooping down he kissed her softly on the forehead.

  "Our little girl!" he said softly. "Our little girl back again. Our own again!"

  "Great work!" said Merrick huskily, getting up and following his father around the table. He stooped over and gave Maris a great bear hug and a resounding smack on her cheek, never knowing that he left a big tear beside the kiss. Merrick was a dear. She never knew before that Merrick cared that much.

  "And won't you ever get married, sister? Will you stay with us always?" beamed Gwyneth. "But, oh, sister, your beautiful ring!"

  Suddenly Maris broke down and laughed.

  "There are some things better than rings!" she told Gwyneth. "I'd rather be here at home with you all than have all the rings in the universe."

  "That isn't the only ring in the world, kid," said Merrick gruffly as he took his cap and prepared to go out to his daily bus route. He alternated, one day early, the next day late. This was his late morning. He wouldn't be home till late in the evening tonight.

  Somehow after that talk with her family the doubt and dismay and compunctions of the night before vanished, and Maris was very happy as she got up from the table and kissed her father and brother good-bye. Then she stood in the doorway and watched them go away smiling. Father was going to the office for a few hours. He had been well enough to go every day for the last week.

  "Maris," said Gwyneth, looking up after they had vanished around the corner, "what I'm worrying about is my maid of honor dress. Do you think I'll have any use for it? It won't stay in fashion long enough till I grow up big enough to wear a long dress, will it? What shall we do with it?"

  "Oh, my dear sister. That's nothing to worry about. There are dozens of things to do. We can hem it up and use it for a party dress. It is very simple."

  Gwyneth sighed.

  "I wouldn't like it to be wasted," she said. "It's so pretty. It is the prettiest dress I have ever had!"

  "Yes, darling. It is pretty, and you'll wear it and have a lot of enjoyment out of it yet, I'm sure! It's simple enough, hemmed up, to wear to church even." Maris patted her sweet young cheek and thrilled to think that these dear people all belonged to her. Her precious family!

  Then the nurse came downstairs, and her eyes seemed to be happier than usual.

  "Do you know," she said, stepping up to the door and speaking in a jubilant tone, "I believe your mother's pulse is a trifle steadier this morning than it has been at all."

  Then all suddenly the morning became brighter than it had seemed to be before, and Maris's heart grew light as she went upstairs to her duties.

  A wedding day! What was a wedding day beside a bit of hope like that? Not a wedding day with Tilford Thorpe anyway!

  The rest of the day went on glad feet. Maris had feared just a little that Tilford might appear on the scene and be disagreeable again, but now it didn't seem to matter. Her dear family was restored to the old-time fellowship that had been broken up ever since she had got to know Tilford Thorpe, and somehow other things grew small beside the joy of the family understanding. If only Mother were well enough to know it! If Tilford came, let him come. Somehow that trouble, too, would dissolve like others.

  So the day passed in tender ministrations.

  There were duties for the household that she had long put by till a convenient time; they simply could not wait any longer. There were unexpected interruptions of visitors and telephone messages, and the evening wore on without a chance for Maris to go alone and do some Bible study as she had promised herself that morning to do. There was a game to play with Lexie, who was allowed to sit up longer now. As she sat there beside the little girl's bed with the bedside table between them holding the Chinese checkers board, she could hear the boys' voices over on the Maitland lawn. They were playing ball with Lane! How good he was, caring for those children exactly as if they were his own brothers. Oh, if Tilford had been like that, how different things would have been!

  The game presently was finished. The boys' voices had trailed off farther, and she knew they were being sent to bed. Lexie would soon be asleep now, and she would have her promised Bible reading. So she sat down at last quietly in her own room, with her new Bible in her hand.

  She heard a cab drive down the street and pause somewhere, but she was on the other side of the house from the street and paid little heed to it. She had given up the thought that Tilford would come. The wedding
day was almost over. In a few more hours it would be a thing of the past, a thing that had never been.

  The Bible opened to Isaiah, and her eyes suddenly fell upon a verse that Lane had marked. She had not seen it before. Such a strange, arresting verse, as if it were spoken by the Lord straight to her soul, as if it were a kind of promise for her to take with her into her life:

  "No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord."

  She had read so far when the nurse tapped at the door.

  "I think there is somebody at the front door," she said, "and I saw Sally go out a few minutes ago. I can't leave your mother just now. Can you go? Your father is asleep."

  Maris laid down her Bible and went downstairs, patting her rumpled hair smooth and glancing down at her neat little cotton housedress. Her wedding night and just about the time when she would have been walking down the church aisle to the time of the "Wedding March"!

  She went to the door but at first saw no one, though there was a taxi at the curb. Then she discovered a man with a cap drawn low and a rough look about him.

  "Are you Maris Mayberry?" he asked in a husky voice that she did not recognize.

  "Yes," she answered, her heart beginning to beat excitedly, though she did not know exactly why.

  "Well, step out here so your sick folks won't hear. I've got a message from your brother."