Maris

by Hill, Grace Livingston;

  "A year!" said Tilford coldly. "Are you expecting me to put off my marriage for a year?"

  "No," said Maris haughtily. "I did not suppose that you had anything to say about it. In fact, I supposed that since I gave you back your ring you understood that that ended all between us. You made no protest, and you did not come back to talk it over. But since you have insisted on having the invitations, I am only making it plain to you that I cannot marry you. At least not for a very long time. And I'm not sure, since all this has happened, that I would want to even then. I am just telling you that everything is over between us."

  He looked at her with vexation and a kind of wonder in his eyes.

  "Look here, Maris, of course I'm not going to allow you to carry out this ridiculous idea. In fact, I'm sure you didn't expect me to. You think you will gain a little time and get me to coax you up and soothe you and all that. I didn't come back with your ring because I thought you were in no mood to take care of it just then and I had better keep it until you came out of that silly mood. Just heroics, that's all it was when you thrust that ring into my hand. Of course I knew you were all worn out with the demands of your ridiculous family. But I knew if I gave in to you, then you would only think you could go further. I thought it would do you good just to go without your ring for a few days and see how it feels to have a ring like that and then have it gone. But you needn't think you can keep this up. I shall exercise my authority and demand that you come away from this house and take a good rest, and then we'll go on with the wedding as quietly as it can be done and get away on the ocean to different scenes and get you all over this nonsense."

  "Authority?" said Maris. "You have no authority over me now. I gave you back your ring, which you said was a sign of your authority. And I have no idea of leaving this house or family. They are my family and this is my home, and I would not go away from them now for all the rings in the universe. I love them, and they are in trouble, and that means I am in trouble, too. They belong to me, are part of me. I owe them all the love and care I have."

  "That's all nonsense, Maris. That's a fallacy of the Dark Ages. We don't owe our parents a thing in the world. That's an exploded theory invented by parents to keep their children cowed. We're done with all that now. Each one of us has to live his own life as he pleases. The modern generation has shifted from all that nonsense and are proving that life is a free adventure each works out for himself. We--"

  "Stop!" said Maris. "I don't want to hear another word of that kind of stuff. I thought you were a Christian--at least I supposed you thought you were."

  "A Christian?" laughed Tilford disagreeably. "Well, why should you question that? I often go to church, don't I? I give to the Red Cross work, and the Welfare; I'm always generous! I was confirmed ten years ago. I've told you that, I'm sure----"

  "None of those things make a Christian," said Maris. "I don't know much about it myself and I realize I haven't been a very wonderful Christian and have no right to criticize, but in these long nights of anxiety I've had time to think, and I've seen myself as God must see me, and I'm ashamed."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Maris, don't go religious on me! I can't endure ranting women. Maris, think of all our plans! Think of how much I've done to make you happy on this trip. Think of your love for me. You're angry now, but you do love me. You did love me when I gave you your ring, didn't you, Maris?"

  Maris lifted clear, honest eyes.

  "I thought I did, but--I wonder--if I ever did. Perhaps I was carried away with the glamour of having you compliment me and take me around in a beautiful car."

  "That is ridiculous, Maris. You are just overwrought. You loved me, of course. I've seen it in your eyes. Here, let's go somewhere out of this awful glare of the sun and talk this thing out. I can't think of what has got into you. Just because your mother is a little sick and you've sat up a few nights--you've made a mountain out of a molehill. Come, get into the car and we'll take a little ride. It will freshen you up. No matter if you aren't dressed, we'll drive out into the country where nobody will see you."

  "No!" said Maris firmly. "I can't go, and I can't stay to talk anymore. There isn't anything to say, anyway. My mother is very low and must be absolutely quiet for six weeks at least, not even moving her arms or hands. And if she lives to get better, she will have to go away for several months for absolute rest. My sisters and brothers have no one but me to keep things together."

  "Nonsense! Let your father get a housekeeper. Other men have to do things like that."

  "A housekeeper could not look after the children. Lexie is only a baby yet, and the boys are very young."

  "Oh, that's easy. The children can be sent away to good schools. They have schools for very young children conducted by the very newest methods, which doubtless would be far better for them than to be coddled the way your mother has been doing. For the matter of that, if the children went away to school, your father and brother could board. There are cheap boardinghouses. They could let the house furnished and take a room somewhere near their business and take meals at a restaurant. I understand that is a cheap way to live."

  They had been sitting down in the porch rockers as they talked, but suddenly Maris arose, drew herself up to her full height, and spoke sharply: "This is all I want to hear about that!" she said, her voice like icicles. "Even if I were sure that I loved you as I thought I did awhile ago, even if you had not done and said all the unpleasant, unloving things that you have done and said the past week when I was in trouble, I would never want to go away with you and leave my family in distress. I know I love my family, but I'm not at all sure that I ever loved you! Good-bye!"

  And before Tilford's astonished eyes, Maris turned and walked into the house and up the stairs.

  Tilford sat there in the chair a long time, expecting her to come back and ask to be forgiven, but she did not come. He was shocked at her stubbornness.

  Now, what was his mother going to say? And after she had bought that wedding dress, too!

  CHAPTER TEN

  Maris shut herself into her room and faced herself in her mirror. It was as if she felt the need of telling herself what had just happened. Lexie was comfortable for the moment and the mirror was out of range. She stood and looked into her own eyes, facing facts. She was not going to be married in a few days! She was not going to marry Tilford ever! That was as clear as if a voice had spoken and told her so. She realized now that she ought to have known that long ago. She was not going to Europe on her wedding trip! She was just a girl in her father's home, with a great many things to regret and a great many to undo, and suddenly with heavy burdens upon her unaccustomed shoulders.

  So now, what was she going to do about it?

  It was imperative for her soul's sake that she do something at once. She could not just stand and face this thing supinely. She had to go vigorously at something to right matters, now that she saw her mistakes. She must burn her bridges behind her.

  Strange, she had no compunctions. No fears that perhaps she was going too fast. That perhaps Tilford would be back and change the whole thing, ask her to forgive him, show his real repentance for his hardness, tell her it was his mistake, that he truly loved her family and wanted to be a real son to them, that he loved her with all his heart and could not think of going on through life without her by his side. No possibility of that sort even crossed her imagination. If it had, she would have known at once it could never happen. She had seen Tilford under the merciless light of testing and she could never again have illusions about him. Moreover, she had seen her own heart in the light of this testing, and she knew that she, too, had been wanting in a number of things that a true heart union should have. She had looked upon her engagement and forthcoming marriage as a beautiful gesture that would interfere not at all with the roots of her life but would keep a continual round of pleasures always near. And that wasn't what marriage should mean. That wasn't what it had meant to Father and Mother. For instance, she couldn't imagine herself lying
on a sickbed as Mother was at this moment and Tilford giving up everything to sit beside her and hold her hand. She couldn't even imagine herself getting much comfort out of it if he did.

  Phrases of his with regard to her mother's possible death came floating sharply to her memory, and a wave of anger crimsoned her face and then receded, leaving it deadly white again. If she had needed anything else to open her eyes after the way he had acted during the past few days, that one thing was enough to have killed any love she might have had for him. No, it was better not to think of him at all. He was out of her life forever now, and it was best to be actively at work clearing away the debris from her little dead romance, if it could rightly be called a romance when it had not been built upon true love in the first place.

  Well, what should she do first? Something decisive. Those wedding invitations! Those should be destroyed at once!

  With a glance into Lexie's room to see that all was well with her, she opened her own door softly and slipped out into the hall. As she did so, she saw her father coming out of the room where he had been sleeping, dressed as if he was going to town. With troubled eyes, she watched him go slowly downstairs, holding on to the handrail like an old man, though he had never seemed old to her before. She followed him down, watching him wistfully. Wasn't there something she could do to relieve his worries? The note! She wondered if Merrick knew how much it was.

  Her father had taken his hat from the rack in the hall closet and was going out the door! He ought not to go out! He wasn't strong enough. Where was Merrick? Perhaps he could go with him.

  Then Merrick appeared at the door and put out his hand to stop his father.

  "Now, Dad, where are you going?"

  The father looked annoyed, as if he had been caught playing hooky.

  "Why, I just have to run out on an errand for a few minutes," he said apologetically. "I'll be right back."

  "Now, Dad, you're going down to the bank, you know you are, and you know you mustn't, see? We can't have you dropping down the way Mother did. You've got to stay in and rest a bit. If somebody has to go down, I'll go for you."

  "You can't sign a note for me, son. I want to get that off my mind. If anything should happen to me, I want that note signed."

  "Look here, Dad. Mr. Matthews said you needn't hurry. He said it is all right anytime this week. He said for you not to come till Mother was better. He said if you wanted him to he would send you up a note to sign."

  "Well, I'd rather go myself. I want to talk it over with him. I may need a little more money than I had expected, with Mother sick, you know. I've got to talk it over with him and get it off my mind. It will be better for me to go, son, and get this done."

  "Not today, Dad. You mustn't, really. If Mother should have another turn like the other day, you wouldn't want to be away. Suppose you just jot down on a paper how much more you want and I'll go down and talk to him myself. I'm a man and I think I can put it over. Mr. Matthews is a prince. He was great yesterday. You trust me, Dad. If you don't, I'll call up the doctor and read the riot act, for you're not going out in this hot sun this morning!"

  "Look here, son, it's only two blocks to the trolley, and it won't hurt me in the least. I tell you, I've got to get this thing off my mind, and it's a great deal worse for me to sit still and think about it than it is for me to go downtown for a couple of hours and get things fixed up. And I must run down to the office, you know, for a few minutes. I haven't been there for three days."

  "That's all right, Dad. The office won't run away. You trust Mr. Temple, don't you?"

  "Perfectly. But there are things he can't decide. I must go and see about some orders that ought to have come in. They're important."

  "Yes, Dad, all right, you write down just what it is you want me to ask about and I'll bring the letters up. I'll talk it over with Mr. Temple and get him to send up any letters you ought to see."

  "Son, you really can't interfere with me this way!" Mr. Mayberry tried to speak sternly, but his voice was shaken, and Merrick's heart was wrung. Poor Dad! He was carrying a heavy burden! If only he'd had his eyes open before and not let his father slave to keep him in college. He ought to be at work earning money to help in this time of need. But Dad shouldn't go out today, weak as he was! Not if he had to tie him to keep him at home.

  "See here, Dad! Nothing doing!" Merrick put his strong young arms about his father and turned him around by force. Loving force it was, or else his father would have struggled with him and got free. But he walked with him the few steps back to the door, earnestly arguing.

  "Son, it's very kind of you to take such care of me, but you don't quite understand. This note has got to be renewed today, and I must go down and attend to it myself. There are things that you wouldn't understand."

  Suddenly Maris opened the screen door and stepped out beside them, laying her hand on her father's arm.

  "Father," she said quietly, just as if she were going to ask him to buy her a dozen oranges at the store, "I heard you talking about a note. How much is it? Why don't we pay it off and get it out of the way?"

  The father looked at her with a shamed, hurt look, as if she had discovered his inmost secret and he had no more courage to face the world.

  "My dear--!" he said, and his voice trailed off uncertainly. "You wouldn't understand. It's just a little matter of business I must attend to at once."

  "Why, of course I'll understand," said Maris, smiling. "I know what a note is, and I want to know how much it is."

  "It's only a small matter," evaded her father, "but it's necessary to be businesslike even in small matters."

  "Yes, I understand, Father, but why don't we pay it off? You have to pay interest on notes, don't you, unless you pay them off? Isn't it better to get them paid and be done with it? Doesn't it save money to do that?"

  "Yes, my dear," said her father with a sad little smile, "but you see, I don't happen to have the money in hand just now, and there's likely to be more need very immediately. I must be prepared. I haven't the money--" He passed his hand over his forehead with a kind of desperate motion and sighed heavily.

  "Yes, but I have it," said Maris briskly. "Have you forgotten that three-thousand-dollar legacy Grandmother left for me?"

  "But that is yours, my dear! That is in the nature of a dowry. I have been so glad that you had a little something of your own, that you do not have to leave your father's house absolutely penniless. No, Maris, my dear, I couldn't possibly use your money."

  "You certainly could, and you certainly will," said Maris briskly. "Come over here, Father, out of the sun, and let me tell you about it. That's my money, you said, and I have a right to use it as I choose, don't I? And I choose to use it this way."

  "Yes, but, my dear, though I know and love you for your loving, generous heart, I could never use that money. What would your--what would Tilford say if he knew I took your money to pay for my debts!"

  "Tilford has nothing whatever to do with it!" said Tilford's former fiancée with a wave of her hand. "Tilford does not even know I have any money. I never told him, and I never mean to. I'm going to use this money to lift the burdens off of us as a family. That is, as far as it will go. Perhaps it won't go very far. You haven't told me yet how much that note is. If I haven't got enough, we'll raise the rest some other way, but we'll pay off as much as we can right now and have that out of the way. Is it more than three thousand dollars, Father?"

  "Oh, no," her father laughed. "It's only eight hundred and fifty. But you see, I was going to get a couple of hundred more if I could just to ease things up a little here, keep us going from day to day, you know, and pay a few of the smaller bills. I was hoping things would look up at the office in a month or so, and then everything would be all right again. You know there have been a number of necessary expenses--" He paused in dismay, and Maris took up his words almost cheerfully, briskly, as if she had her hand on the helm of their little lifeboat now and was steering straight for the shore.

  "Yes, I
know, Father, a lot of unnecessary expenses, if you ask me, and all connected with getting me married off. But you see, I've come to my senses at last, and I'm taking over as many bills as I can and helping you to get clear of all this that has rested so heavily on you. Now, Merrick, if you'll just get the data from Father, I'll run up and get a check. Merrick, don't you dare let Father go downtown today; I'll be right back!" And Maris was off on light feet speeding up to her desk.

  "Oh, but I can't let her do that!" said the father, looking dazedly at his son. "It was to have been her dowry. Mother and I were so glad she had it. And Tilford! What will he think of me?"

  "Tilford be hanged! What's he got to do with it? She'll never tell him. She wants to do it, Dad. She's a peach, and you mustn't make her feel bad by refusing it. She's been worried about you, I could see. You've got to take it, Dad. Haven't you been giving, giving, giving ever since we were born? And we've just taken and never helped a cent's worth!"

  "It's the parents' place to give."

  "Well, not forever. It's our place now. I only wish I had a legacy, and I'd turn it all over to you. But I'll find a way to help, too, you'll see."

  Suddenly the father's head went down on his lifted hand, and Merrick could see that he was deeply stirred.

  "Listen, Dad," said Merrick, trying to clear the huskiness from his throat, "that's no way to take it. It's no humiliation. Why can't we all be glad one of us has got it to clear the rest? Why aren't you pleased Maris isn't selfish? Why aren't you glad this note can be paid and you won't have to worry about it any longer?"