Maris (11 page)

"Oh, maybe it won't be like that," said Maitland, trying to be matter-of-fact. "Maybe your new brother-in-law will be great. Perhaps you don't know him. Wait till you know him," he added hopefully.

"Who, Tilford? Not he!" sighed Eric hopelessly. "He's a snob. He's some swell! He can't take a joke, nor see one. He hates kids, and anyway, we never would get to know him. He doesn't like us. He always acts as if we didn't exist."

"Well, let's forget it for tonight and have a good time, what do you say?"

"Okay!" said the boys, and they climbed eagerly into the car and were off to the store. And how they did enjoy going around the store picking out things they thought might be needed.

They made a fire out in the backyard and cooked their sausages, made some cocoa there, too, and when they had eaten their strawberries with plenty of cream and sugar, they were really too full to hold another crumb of anything.

"And now," said Maitland cheerfully, "we'll wash up the dishes and go up and get our beds in order. After that, it will be time to turn in."

"So soon?" said the boys, who hated to lose a minute of this grand picnic.

"Oh, people always go to bed early when they are at camp. It's one of the rules, you know."

So they submitted and hurried back and forth to the house, bringing supplies and dishes and washing up.

Merrick came over with a suitcase of garments while they were making their beds, and grinned as they both tried to talk at once, telling him about their supper out of doors.

"That's all right, kids, but if I hear of you making any trouble over here, I'll come over and lam you one you won't forget, and I don't mean maybe."

They promised good behavior and dived into the suitcase, arraying themselves for the night.

Merrick reported that there was little or no change in the sick ones and looked gravely troubled as he said it, and when he was gone, Maitland ordered lights out and everybody kneeling for prayers. He suggested that they pray for their mother and little sister. And then suddenly serious boys knelt and were very quiet for a long minute, beside their cots, till Maitland's voice broke in upon their devotions.

"Dear Lord, we want to thank You for being with us all day and keeping guard over us and those we love. Keep guard over us during the night, both here and at the home house, and especially be with the sick ones. If it's Your will, make them better in the morning. And help these boys to be strong and courageous and to conquer themselves so that they will be ready to help in this time of stress. Teach them to trust themselves to Thee. We ask it in Christ's name."

Subdued and quiet, they got into bed, and it was all still about them. They lay for a while thinking of their mother and the terrible possibilities that life held, life that had been so bright and engaging before this. They realized that God had bent down and was taking account of them, that they were, perhaps, in His eye more than they had thought. It was barely possible that He expected something of even them--just boys. They hadn't thought of that before.

But long after they fell asleep, Lane Maitland lay across the room from them and thought of the girl in the next house who was bearing so many burdens just now. The girl he used to know so well and who had grown even lovelier than she had been when they were in school together!

He thought of what the little boys had said about her fiancé. Was that just children's chatter? Was the man her equal? Was he worthy of so lovely a girl? He sighed as he thought about it. Well, it was not for him to think about. He would like to help her somehow, but that was not his job of course. Only it would be nice to know that someone was taking it over and doing it well. She needed comforting, he was sure, for she had looked terribly troubled that afternoon, and she had been grateful that he was looking after the boys. Well, he could at least do that. They were lively youngsters, and there was no place for such eager, thoughtless vitality around sick people. Now, he must just stop thinking about that girl. She belonged to another man.

But it was not easy to turn his thoughts away from the affairs of these dear old friends of his boyhood days. The more perhaps because he had so recently lost his parents and was practically alone in the world. For hours he lay thinking and finally got up to look out the window toward the house next door and observe the lighted windows. They were not getting much rest over there, he was sure, for he could see shadows of moving forms now and again. He longed to know how the battle with death in one room, and with disease in another, was going. How would the others stand up under this hard time?

And while all this was going on, up in the Thorpe mansion on the side of the town always designated as "the Hill," the family was having a counsel of war.

Tilford had not gone to his sister's dinner. Since his fiancée for whom the dinner was given could not be there, it would certainly look better for him to stay away, too. So he stayed at home with his father and mother in a gloomy silence and ate in an offended way through an excellent dinner.

"Well, really, Tilford, what happy circumstance has made you a guest in your home after your many and continued absences?" the father asked facetiously as Tilford walked into the dining room and took his seat.

"Don't try to be funny, Dad!" said Tilford heavily. "It's anything but a happy circumstance. I'm on the verge of insanity with all that has happened, and it seems impossible to work anything out that will better matters."

"Ah, indeed! I haven't heard of an impending disaster. Am I to be favored with a recital, or would you prefer to suffer in secret?"

"You're so trifling, Dad, no wonder you don't hear the news. But of course you'll have to know," sighed Tilford heavily. "The whole trouble is with Maris's family. They have seen fit to throw a panic into the camp. I haven't been able as yet to ascertain whether it is something they planned in order to annoy us and assert their own importance, or whether it is just upset nerves, or what. But the long and short of it is that Maris's mother had some sort of a nervous upset this morning, fainted away or something, and they are making a mountain out of it. Maris declares she can't go to Irma's dinner, given tonight solely to introduce Maris to our friends. She has got hystericky and declares her mother is at the point of death and she can't leave her. I have tried my best to reason with her, but all to no avail, and then as if that wasn't enough, her baby sister comes home from kindergarten with the measles! Imagine it! Such a plebian, common little childish ailment! And Maris insists she has to care for her. And she wouldn't be moved even when I secured a special child's nurse and offered to pay her myself."

The father watched his son seriously.

"Well, now, that's too bad. Her mother sick! That's hard on a girl, I imagine. I don't see that that's anything to be so disturbed about, her not going to a dinner. Anybody would understand that. I thought she was a very nice, sweet little girl myself when she was here last night. I thought you had made a very wise choice, and we are going to like her a lot. She'll fit right in with our family beautifully. Didn't you think so, Mama?"

"You don't understand, Mr. Thorpe," said his wife. She always called him Mr. Thorpe before the servants. "It's just her family trying to get in the public eye. They are very plain people and not in our class at all, and they're taking this opportunity, just at the most inconvenient time, to try to force themselves into the foreground. That mother has kept up all through the weeks perfectly well. She has seemed pleased enough at the way things were going, and she hasn't broken down. People don't break down all at once like that. If she has kept up so long and perfectly healthy, why should she suddenly start up and faint away? And what's a little faint anyway? I've had more than one myself, but I never let it interfere with my social duties nor embarrass my family. But she, just the very day those invitations should have gone out, she chooses to collapse and scare the bride out of her wits. I say it's premeditated. She's just trying to force us to recognize her and show how important she is by putting a stop to all the festivities. Imagine daring to do that to Tilford's family, after all we've done for her."

"Why, now, Mama! What have we done for her?" Mr. Thorpe looked over his glasses and regarded his wife leniently.

"Done for her! Do you have to ask? Haven't we taken her up and made much of her, put her right on a pedestal, just as if she belonged in our set, and got her all these invitations among our social equals?"

"Social equals? Why, Mama, what kind of an idea have you got of the Mayberrys? Don't you know I looked them up and they really belong to one of the fine old families?"

"Well, that may all be very well, Mr. Thorpe. Old families, yes. But old families without money degenerate. They live on the lower side of town, don't they? They live in an old rack-a-bones of a house that needs painting terribly, and they go to a strange little church without a particle of style to it and then insist on having the wedding,
our
wedding, in their own church, when I had gone to the trouble of asking our rector if they might have the use of our great beautiful church edifice, with its stately arches and lovely chancel. It lends itself so gracefully to a formal wedding. I even offered to superintend the decorations myself. But no, they had to have their own ugly little church and minister. I declare it's too vexing. And then she insists she is going to wear some little frowsy dress that
her mother has made
, instead of a perfectly exquisite imported one that I suggested. She is certainly being too trying for anything. Do you know, Mr. Thorpe, that those wedding invitations haven't gone out yet? And this is the day they should have been mailed! Of course, she is utterly ignorant of all social customs. But Tilford exerted his utmost influence and can't make her give them to him. She declares her mother is at the point of death and she can't send them out at present. And here are we all
disgraced
by having the invitations go out a day late."

"What difference does it make when the invitations go out?" asked Mr. Thorpe amusedly.

"There! That's just like you, Mr. Thorpe! As if you didn't know manners and customs and understand that we'll be the laughingstock of all people who know what is the right thing to do."

"Well, I think you're all wrong, Mama. I think you ought to let that little girl manage her own affairs at least until she's married to Tilford."

"Oh, you would, of course," sighed Tilford's mother. "I ought to have known better than to mention it before you. I wish you wouldn't say any more about it. My nerves are simply at the limit. I'm going down there tomorrow morning the first thing and have some words with that hystericky mother and make her understand that she can't upset all our plans by a little gesture of illness! Tilford, if you will come up to my room after you have finished your coffee, I'll be glad to discuss this matter with you and see what we can work out together about those invitations, but I simply can't stand your father's stupid remarks any longer. He knows better, but he likes to annoy me. You'll have to excuse me!" And Mrs. Thorpe swept from the room.

Later Tilford went to his mother's room, and they continued their discussion.

"Listen, Tilford," said his mother as they settled down to talk, "has that child really got the measles, or did it turn out to be scarlet fever?"

"I'm sure I don't remember," said Tilford gloomily. "What difference does it make?"

"Well, one is supposed to be a little more deadly than the other, that's all," said his mother frigidly. "And I've been thinking back. It wasn't real measles you had when you were a child, it was German measles, and it seems to me that I've heard that you can have all three. The other is French, isn't it? I can't remember, but if it's regular measles, you'd better stay away from that house.
You
might get them, you know, and it seems to me I've heard it goes very hard with grown people when they get them. It's either measles or mumps, I'm not sure which. But you'd better be on the safe side and stay away. It would be simply dreadful if you should get the measles. It certainly would bring that family into the limelight with a vengeance. It would make you ridiculous, Tilford. People would never forget it that you couldn't get married because you had the measles!"

"For heaven's sake, Mother! Haven't I trouble enough now without you bringing up an idea like that! You can't get measles unless you come into contact with the patient, and you can make sure I'll never do that."

"No, but seriously, Tilford, you'll just have to tell Maris that she should come here if she wants to see you, that we don't approve of your running into danger! You'll simply have to make that girl give up her headstrong notions and let her precious family look out for themselves, or
give you up
! I fancy that will bring her to her senses!" The mother finished with a triumphant gleam in her eyes, but Tilford continued to march gloomily back and forth across the room.

"You don't know Maris," he said bitterly. "It wouldn't faze her in the least. When she gets started on something, she has to finish it, no matter what she upsets."

"Well, but I thought you said she was pliable, so easy to mold, so ready to yield to whatever you wanted. Those are your very words, my son."

"Yes, I know. I thought so. But I've found out it isn't so. She's got to have her own way if the heavens fall!"

"But you can't appeal to her love for you?"

"I don't know whether she has any. I thought she was crazy about me, but now she is simply blind. She's mad to have her own way and sacrifice herself for her poor ailing family."

"But Tilford! She must realize what a different station in life you are giving her. She must understand the enormous value of being your wife and having everything that money can buy. She cannot look at the gorgeous diamond you gave her without realizing that. You can't tell me she'd give all that up just for sentiment."

"Wouldn't she? What would you say if I told you that she gave me back my ring tonight? Look there!" And Tilford paused beside his mother and held out the flashing stone in the palm of his hand.