Maris

by Hill, Grace Livingston;

  But the day wore on and still there was no word from the Thorpes, and now as she went to lie down and rest a little during an interval after supper, it began to seem ominous, this silence. What did it mean? True, she had given Tilford back his ring and left him. But she could not think that he would take a repulse like that without an argument or some kind of retaliation. A word was never final to him unless he was the one to speak it.

  It suddenly came to her, as she lay thinking this over, that she was falling more and more into the attitude of criticizing Tilford, comparing him with others, fearing his decisions. What was the matter with her? Didn't she love him the way a girl should love the man she was to marry?

  It wasn't thinkable that Tilford was letting another day go by without making some move about those wedding invitations, either. And now it was definite in her mind that there was nothing she could do about them for the present. Her mother's condition all day had been unchanged. So far as she herself could judge, her mother seemed to be sinking hour by hour. Each time she went to the room and cast a glance toward the bed, her mother's frail sweet face looked more delicate and ethereal, as if a great change was coming over her. And yet the doctor and the nurse did not seem to be particularly troubled. But to her inexperienced eyes there seemed no hope at all that she would rally. Obviously, under such conditions, one could not send out wedding invitations.

  And if Mother should die?

  Oh, she couldn't go into that thought, not so long as there was a breath of hope. But if Mother should die, what heart could she or anyone have for weddings?

  And if Mother didn't die, was the prospect of a wedding any more likely?

  Even if she got well, it would be a long time before she would be able to take up life again and look after her family!

  The darkness had settled down about Maris and she had not turned on her light. Lexie was asleep, and there was no need to disturb her with a light. Besides, it was pleasanter here on the bed looking out into the soft night. She could even see a few stars twinkling between the tree branches, and there was a soft radiance in the east where sometime soon the moon was about to rise. There was a soft little stir of a breeze that rustled the leaves of the big beech tree outside her window. She was so tired that she longed to drift off and forget all her perplexities, yet her thoughts would not let go while those troublous questions were in her mind.

  Suddenly she heard voices, just the other side of the hedge on the Maitland place, under the hemlock trees. It was Merrick and Lane. They had come to the old rustic seats to talk, in order not to disturb the boys, very likely. It was Merrick who was speaking. By the sound, Maris judged he had stretched his length on the rickety old seat, and Lane was hanging up the hammock between the trees. She could hear the grating of the rings as they slipped into the hooks. The old hammock they used to all use so freely, the old hooks! Wouldn't they be rusty and unsafe?

  But when Merrick spoke, it seemed as if there must have been some thought transference between him and herself, for he was voicing some of the very questions that had been in her mind.

  "Well, I'm sure I don't know what's coming to us all," Merrick was saying in a gloomy voice. "Even if Mother gets well, it'll be a long time. The doctor acknowledged that much. A long time before she's able to be about among us again, looking after everything, you know."

  Lane's voice was quiet but had a clear ring to it as he said, "Well, you know that nothing can come to you except with God's permission."

  "You think that?" Merrick's voice was almost bitter as he asked the question.

  "I know that."

  "Doesn't look that way to me," said the younger fellow. "Looks more like some of it came from the devil."

  "Well, the devil may have had something to do with it, but for some good, wise reason of His own, God permits it."

  "I can't see that," said Merrick, and Maris, listening, could almost see the narrowing of Merrick's eyes and the wry twist of his lips. "I'm beginning to think God doesn't have anything to do with things. Look at marriage, now. They say that marriages were made in heaven. But most of 'em are a mess! I hope I never fall in love. If I do, I'll go and drown myself or something. Marriage makes a lot of trouble for everybody."

  "Look here now, brother! I object to a man that has as wonderful a father and mother as you have saying a mean thing like that!"

  "Oh, yes, Dad and Mother, of course that's different. There aren't many like them. Why, I believe if anything was to happen to Mother, Dad would just wilt away and die himself, he's so bound up in her."

  "Well, I had a mother and father like that, too, so I'm not listening to any tirades like that on marriage."

  "Oh, well, I mean modern marriage. Of course, people used to be all right when Dad and Mother were young. But you take today. Take my sister. Here she's all wrapped up in that poor fish she's going to marry, and what's going to become of us when she's gone? Mother down sick for at least a year, Dad hardly able to hold up his head till Mother gets well, and there'll be only me to bring up the family. Nice hand I'll make bringing 'em up. I might make a stab at looking after the boys, but what am I going to do with Gwyneth and Lexie? Where do you think I found Gwyn last night, after we'd sent her over to the Howards to stay all night and study? Down at the drugstore eating ice cream with Rance Mosher, the little rat! Maybe you don't know what he is, but I do, plenty!"

  Merrick lowered his voice and talked earnestly. Maris couldn't hear what he said, but she knew he was telling Lane something dreadful Rance had done, for Lane's earnest tones showed that he fully agreed with Merrick in his judgment that Rance was no fit companion for Gwyneth.

  "But look here, Merrick," said Lane, and now his voice was louder again so that she distinctly heard the words, "you don't need to worry about that. There'll be some way provided to take care of the family if such a situation arises. Maris and her husband would probably arrange to come and live with you, and she would take charge."

  "Not she! She wouldn't be allowed to! You don't know Tilford. He's the most selfish brute that ever walked the earth!"

  "Oh, but surely in circumstances like that! No decent man could refuse."

  "Couldn't he? Well, maybe he isn't decent, then. But even if he would, we wouldn't want him. He thinks we're the scum of the earth and he's the top layer in paradise. Gosh! I couldn't ask for any worse fate than to have him come and stay in the house awhile. He makes me so mad the way he bosses my sister around, and makes her like it, that I can't see straight. It's partly what's killing Mother, too. Maybe it's even that altogether. That and the fact that she's pretty sure that when Maris is married to him that's the end of her so far as we're concerned. And gosh, Mother's all bound up in Maris! That's what I mean. If God lets that thing happen to us all, I can't see that He can care for any of us!"

  "Well, even at that, God might have some great good wrapped up in it for you," said Lane Maitland's slow, earnest voice, thoughtfully.

  "I can't see it!"

  "It might be there, even if you can't see it."

  "Well, have it your own way, Parson, but I tell you it's a pretty tough thing to swallow, having Maris marry that pill. He's all kinds of rich, of course, and is taking her around the world or something like that for a honeymoon, but she might as well be going to heaven as far as we are concerned, and I don't hope to ever see much of her again. Of course, she doesn't see it. She thinks he's all right. But I'd rather see her marry a day laborer that was a good, honest man than this poor fish, even though he did give her a diamond as big as a hen's egg."

  It was all very still for a minute, and then Maris heard Lane say slowly, "She's a wonderful girl! It seems as though she ought to rate a man who is exceptionally fine!"

  "Yes, that's what I'm saying," broke in Merrick. "She's a wonderful sister! She's always been wonderful, and fine and unselfish, and when I think of her tied to that bird and having to put up with him all her life and run around and pretend she likes it, it makes me see red! I don't see why God lets it happen.
That's why I say marriage is a mess and I hope I never fall in love."

  "Say, you know marriage wasn't meant to be a mess, and God planned the first marriage to be helpful to both the man and the woman. It wasn't till the man and woman tried to be independent of God that sin came into the world and happiness was spoiled. It's somebody's fault when marriages go wrong."

  "Oh, is it! And whose fault would it be?"

  "Well, people ought to be careful who they pick to fall in love with in the first place. You don't have to fall in love with everybody you admire. You have to watch yourself. You have to choose the right one. You have to get the one God planned for you."

  "Oh yeah? And how would you know who that was? Now I know a girl I like real well, but how do I know but she'd turn out to be some poor lily like all the ones that run down to Reno today to get disengaged? How are you going to tell, I say?"

  "Well, I don't know just whether my rule would apply to you or not, but in the first place, if I found I was getting really interested in a girl, I'd find out whether she was a real sincere Christian or not. If she wasn't and wouldn't take Christ as her Savior and Lord, I'd quit right then and there. That would be my first step in deciding."

  There was a sudden prolonged silence out under the trees. Merrick had been listening to a new idea. At last he said embarrassedly, "Well, that's a new one on me. I'm afraid if I found a girl was all that, I'd know I wouldn't be good enough for her."

  "Yes? Well, that would be something to think about, too," said Lane quietly. "In a true marriage both parties would have to measure up, wouldn't they? It's only as two people are dominated by the same Spirit and are surrendered to the same Lord that they can live together in harmony, isn't it?"

  "I guess you're getting rather too deep for me, but you may be right," mused Merrick. "My sister is as good a Christian as there is, at least she was till she took to going around with this worldly guy, but I don't believe she's ever tried your system, for I'm sure her precious Tilford is no Christian! She does a lot of things now that she didn't used to do, things she wasn't brought up to do. Oh, not bad things, you know, just worldly. She didn't used to think they were in her line. I don't believe she knows how she's changed."

  "Yes, I feel sure your sister accepted Christ as her Savior some years ago," said Lane almost reverently. "I remember when we were kids she told me about it. Her testimony was one of the things that made me want to know the Lord myself."

  "I remember," said Merrick thoughtfully. "There was a Bible class started about that time, too. I went once or twice myself. It was real interesting. But the teacher got married and moved away. That's why I say marrying is a mess. It's always breaking up things. I'm never going to fall in love."

  "Well, at least wait till you find the right girl," said Lane amusedly. "You know, really, Merrick, you're young yet! So am I for the matter of that, and we don't need to get so excited about it. For, after all, the world has been going on this way for some time, marrying and giving in marriage, and where would we be if our parents had never married?"

  "That's different," growled Merrick illogically.

  "Just how?"

  "Well, it's different from Maris marrying that poor fish, I tell you. I guess you never met him, did you? He's just too good looking for any use, and he knows it, too."

  "No, I never met him, but I sincerely hope your sister will be happy!" Lane's tone was suddenly very grave and sweet, and there was a tenderness in it that thrilled Maris and soothed her tired soul. There at least was one person who wasn't criticizing her!

  But Maris, as she lay there thinking for some time after the boys had said good night and gone away, felt as if somehow their conversation had thrown open a door that before had been closed and locked. A number of things were disclosed to her startled view that she had never dreamed before.

  There, for instance, was her family! She had not known that they felt unhappy about her marriage. Did they really, or was that just a figment of Merrick's imagination? Merrick, jealous that his sister should be going away with anybody else?

  New insight seemed to come to her as she stared at the dark wall ahead of her and began to remember little things that had been said, little actions, withdrawings, that she had not noticed at the time but that now stood out sharply. Her father, sighing heavily without explanation, only a sad smile when she questioned him. Her mother wiping away a tear and pretending it was only perspiration. Little things that in her hurry had passed without her taking much account of them. If she had stopped to consider, she might have only laid them down to the natural premonition of the coming separation while she was on her wedding trip. But now she saw that it had been more than that. A stolid indifference on the part of her father and the children to anything that was said about Tilford. Mother always asked after him and spoke brightly of him, but especially of late her father had been silent where he was concerned. Had they all taken a dislike to him? Did the rest feel as Merrick did? Of course, she had known for some time that Merrick and Tilford did not hit it off very well, but she had laid it to the fact that Tilford was a little older. She had reasoned that when they were really related and got to know each other better, all that would pass away. And they would all be fond of him and enjoy the good things of life together.

  Now she suddenly saw what a fool she had been to imagine any such thing. And then once more came that shocking question, as it had the morning before when she awoke, was she sure that she was altogether satisfied with her choice of a life companion?

  And was Tilford satisfied with her?

  He had made it quite apparent that he was, until just recently, and perhaps his entire taking over of her affairs and ordering them had flattered her so that she did not see everything clearly. For certainly he had not been very comfortable to get along with the last day and a half. She had never imagined he could be as disagreeable as he had proved himself to be ever since her mother had taken sick. And that was just the time when one would have expected sympathy and devotion more than any other. It was the time when she had needed someone to lean upon. Her mother too ill to know what was going on, her father incapacitated by his love and anxiety, and Tilford only concerned about wedding invitations!

  But towering head and shoulders above that thought there was another consideration that made even the choice of a life companion take second place, and that was the dire straits of her beloved family and their immediate need of herself.

  It suddenly became very plain to her that the machinery of her pleasant days had been stopped short and utterly changed and that she could not possibly go on with what she had planned. For even if her mother should rally soon and get back to a semblance of her former self, they could not get along without her. She was needed right here. Mother would not be fit for a long time to take over the reins of the household, and there was just nobody else in the world to do it. It was obviously her job.

  Perhaps she hadn't recognized it before she heard Lane Maitland's clear-cut statement of what he seemed so sure she would do. Perhaps she hadn't even thought ahead so far. Her heart had just stood still and gasped at the great calamity that had come to pass. The future was nothing in her mind until she should know whether Mother would live and be with them again or would go away forever from this life. This was the one and only question in her mind. All the other matters--caring for the little sick sister, making decisions about Gwyneth, ordering the household matters, and placating her angry lover--she had performed as in a dream, by a sort of automatic action of her brain. Her heart had been in attendance upon her mother, her dear, dear mother.

  But now it was clear to her that even if Mother got well sooner than she could possibly hope, she would not feel free to get married and to go away to the other side of the world seeking pleasure. Her place was here, at least for the present. And somehow she had to make that plain to her irate bridegroom.

  Instinctively she knew it was going to be a battle, and while the contemplation of it wearied her inexpressibly, she was surpri
sed to find that it was not the blasting disappointment that it might have been a few weeks before. The trip to Europe had lost its glamour in the light of immediate events. Being a grand lady in a new apartment of her own, furnished in the taste of her new mother-in-law, no longer loomed large on her horizon. All those things had faded and become unreal before the glaring light of real trouble. And somehow she was too tired to think of what she ought to do about it. Had God sent all of this distress down upon her to give her pause to think what she had been about to do?

  Just what she would have thought if she could have known that Mrs. Thorpe, when she found out that the wedding dress had been rejected, had sent down her check to the Archer shop and ordered the dress sent up to herself, it is hard to speculate. Fortunately, she was spared that knowledge.

  But Maris did not have a night of ease; her rest was broken by a wailing voice: "Sister, I vant a dwink of vater!" And from that time on the night was disturbed. Lexie was restless and uncomfortable and cried for this and that. Once at almost two o'clock the doctor came slipping in quietly, and Maris stole out to watch and listen at her mother's door, her hungry eyes searching his face as he went away, but his only answer to her unspoken appeal was a kindly smile.

  As she stole back in to Lexie again, Maris felt as if her heart would burst with the very uncertainty of it all.

  For three days the strain went on, the doctor coming and going frequently but saying little. And during those three days Lexie also was very sick indeed. Maris had little time to consider herself, not even to realize that Tilford had not been near her in all that time, nor sent her any word. And when at last it did come to her mind, it was only with a sigh of relief that she had not had that to deal with also.