Maris (30 page)

Suddenly Maris dropped her face in her hands and wept, her slender shoulders shaking with great rending sobs.

Lane gathered her into his arms again.

"Don't, beloved, don't feel that way! It's all over. Let's forget it!"

"But, oh, to think I almost married a man like that, when there was you waiting for me! How can God forgive me?"

"Dear, precious one, say rather how good God has been to bring us together in this wonderful way! But now, Maris, I think we've talked enough. You should rest. You are worn out. And besides, we should get home as quickly as possible, not only for your sake but for the sake of the family, so that you will be there and have everything normal in the morning. Now, put your head down on my shoulder and go to sleep, and we'll be at home in a little while."

So Maris nestled down with her head on Lane's shoulder, and though she was so strangely happy, she fell asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes.

 

 

Mr. Mayberry was restless at all intervals all night.

When Lane and Maris arrived, they came in so quietly that not even a mouse would have been startled by them. Merrick had gone out to meet the car and bring his sister in. They walked on the grass so that their footsteps would not be heard. But in the early dawn of the morning, the invalid suddenly out of a quiet sleep asked, "Has--Maris--come yet?"

"Oh, yes," said the night nurse cheerfully. "She's in her room asleep. She'll come in and see you after breakfast."

But Maris was so happy, she could not stay asleep. She woke up with a sense of being surrounded by love. The love and goodness of God in protecting her and bringing her safely home; the love of her dear family--for Merrick had given her one of his bear hugs and a genuine loving kiss. She could see he had been terribly frightened. And the great love of Lane Maitland that seemed too good to be true.

As the morning light sifted through the maple leaves out on the lawn and the birds sang their silver notes in the tops of all the trees around, her heart swelled with thanksgiving and wonder that God had opened up a new world to her and made her life jubilant with love.

She went into her mother's room in a fresh little pink-and-white dress with white frills down the front, one of the pretty little frocks she had purchased first for her trousseau. Why shouldn't the pretty things be worn now and gladden the family?

Most unexpectedly, her mother's eyes rested upon the dress, and then her glance went to Maris's face, radiant with a quiet smile.

"Are--you--married--yet, Maris?" She asked the question in the slow way she had been speaking ever since she had taken sick, but there was an anxious breathlessness at the end of the words as if the answer would mean everything to her.

Maris hadn't heard her talk much since her illness. There had been that sweet, sad smile the last few days but nothing more. Now she looked at her mother astonished, but she quickly rallied, and her eyes lit with a whimsical light as she answered sweetly, "Oh, no, Mother dear. Not married. Just Maris yet."

The mother was silent, watching her wistfully.

"Tilford kept you out so late--late--last night--!"

"But I wasn't with Tilford last night, Mother," said Maris with a lilt in her voice. "I was with Lane Maitland."

"Oh!" said the mother with relief.

Then a moment later a shadow came into her eyes.

"You--put--off--your----wedding--for--me! I'm--sorry!"

"But I'm glad, Mother!" She stooped and kissed her mother.

"Dear!" the mother murmured softly. Then, with an effort: "You--mustn't wait--any longer! Tell Tilford--I'm sorry--delay. Go on--with--wedding!"

Maris smiled tenderly at her mother and then leaned down and said softly, "But Mother, I'm not marrying Tilford at all. I found I didn't love him enough. Are you sorry?"

A great joy dawned on the mother's anxious face.

"I'm--
glad
!" She smiled. "Now--I can--go to sleep!"

And she drew a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Maris felt as if she were walking on air as she went downstairs to speak to Lane, who stood hungrily at the door signaling her with his eyes.

An hour later the father came downstairs, joy shining from every wrinkle in his kindly face.

"Mother is decidedly better," he said to Maris. "The nurse says she's having the best sleep yet!"

Later in the morning when the doctor came, he confirmed the nurse's word that his patient was decidedly better.

Then he went over to see Lexie and said the quarantine could be removed in a couple of days and the little girl would soon be able to go out in the yard in the sunshine.

Gwyneth had gone to her teacher's home and taken her examinations. The little boys were reported as having been exemplary in the matter of maintaining discipline in camp during the rest of the night and were spending the morning sewing two very crooked yellow stripes to their sleeves. They had cut them from a piece of yellow cambric the housekeeper had hunted up from the attic trunks.

So Maris was very happy as she went about her morning duties. The fear of the night before seemed like a bad dream. Now and again she paused as she passed by the window that looked into the garden. Across on the Maitland lawn, Lane was having a game of handball with the boys. Her eyes grew dreamy and sweet as she lifted her heart to heaven in thanksgiving for her marvelous deliverance and God's great loving-kindness to her who had been so stupid and indifferent to the things that should have been so plain to her.

And her heart went singing.

Oh, Lane, Lane! How wonderful that he and I are to spend our days together! Why didn't I know that Tilford would never bring me true happiness?

The little boys finished their game of ball and retired to the garden benches under the hemlocks where Lane had set up a miniature schoolroom. And when they were deep in their studies with enticing promises for the afternoon if they knew their lessons well, Lane went to the garage and sought out those papers in Mrs. Trilby's pocket.

That evening he showed them to Merrick and Maris.

"Here is evidence that will conclusively put a stop to any more interference with Maris," he said as he brought them out of an official-looking envelope. "There are two letters written by Tilford Thorpe to this woman, Mrs. Trilby, the first giving her detailed directions about arraying Maris in those wedding things, even to the ring on her finger. The second deals with the amount of sleeping medicine to be administered. They are signed 'T. Thorpe.' Do you know the handwriting, Maris?"

Maris took the papers in trembling hands and read them through, growing very white as she read.

"Yes," she said, looking up with quick tears in her eyes, "that's his handwriting!" Then she took out her handkerchief and brushed the tears away. "Oh, it makes me so ashamed!" she said.

"It's not your shame, sister; it's his!" burst forth Merrick.

Lane gave her a tender smile.

"I wouldn't have troubled you with this," he said, "but I felt you should identify the handwriting. These letters are important. With your permission, I am putting them into a safe-deposit box in the bank, Maris, in your name, and instructing my lawyer to write a letter to Mr. Thorpe saying that the letters are in safekeeping and will not be used against him as long as he does not trouble you, but if at any time in the future he attempts to annoy you again, your family will immediately take steps to let his actions be widely known. That will save you from further worry about the matter and will be at the same time fair to the young man's family."

"He ought to be strung up!" said Merrick viciously. "He ought to be hanged for kidnapping. But, of course, I suppose you are right."

"Will Father have to know?" asked Maris anxiously.

"No, I shouldn't think so. At least not now," said Lane. "Now, Maris, let's forget it and be happy. God sends sunshine after rain, and rainbows in our clouds. Mother is better, I hear; let's thank God and sing hallelujah in our hearts!"

"Okay!" said Merrick fervently and got up and walked away to hide his emotion.

When a few more days had gone by, so many happy things were happening that Maris almost forgot that she had been kidnapped and been through frightful tortures of horror before she escaped. Only at night sometimes she would waken with a strange terror possessing her and think for a minute she was lying on that bed on board the ship. Then all the awful nightmare would return, and she would have to go over every terrible second of the experience and try to think how she might have prevented it all in the first place. And she found that the only way she could dispel the thoughts was to pray.

But the days were too happy now to allow such nightmares to continue when the morning came. Lane was sure to be over before the sun was very high, to draw her away for a few minutes to the hemlock retreat just across the hedge, where they might have a few words together alone.

And Mother was getting well. The doctor jubilantly admitted it. He said that if she continued to improve she would be able to go off for a few weeks' rest with Father, and then she would be as good as new. Of course, the nurse must go along to make sure she did not overdo and to watch her pulse and blood pressure and diet and sleep and a few other minor points.

He said this down at the front door early one evening to the assembled family, Lane included, and Lane watched their expressions of joy and relief as they heard.

But his eyes lingered longest on the father's face. There had come an instant radiance at the news, of course, but then there had succeeded a look of gravity, almost a troubled look, as the proposed trip was mentioned. It was the first time the father had heard of that trip seriously, and Lane knew he couldn't see how it was going to be managed.

After the doctor was gone, Lane slipped his arm through Mr. Mayberry's and drew him along the path.

"Come over here to my refuge among the hemlocks a little while. There's something I want to ask you. You come, too, Merrick. I want to talk something over with you both."

The father hesitated. He felt he had a great deal to think about just then, ways and means for this trip, which, of course, had to be if the doctor wanted it.

But he didn't like to refuse Lane. Lane who had been so kind to them all, taking care of the little boys and helping in countless ways besides, so he allowed himself to be led over to the hemlocks. And Merrick came, bringing up the rear, trying to think how he could get a little extra money to help out with.

When they were all comfortably seated with the sweetened darkness around them and the soft slant of moonbeams peeping restfully through the dark lacework of branches, Lane spoke.

"Mr. Mayberry, I'm going to butt in on something that isn't my business. I hope you won't resent it."

"Why, of course not, Lane," said Mr. Mayberry genially. "You've certainly earned the right to talk anything over in this family without feeling you are butting in. I'm sure whatever you suggest will be well worth listening to."

"Thank you, Mr. Mayberry. Well, then, here goes. Hear me through to the end before you jump to conclusions. I heard you tell the doctor just now that you didn't see how you could get away from your business to accompany your wife on this trip the doctor wants her to have----"

"Yes," said the troubled father, passing a thin hand over his furrowed brow, "it's quite impossible just now. I've been away from the office quite a good deal since Mother has been sick, and I'm not at all pleased with the way things are going down there. My assistant is well meaning, I guess, but his judgment is not always as good as it should be. It is really imperative that I should be in the office for the next few weeks, unless I am willing to let my business go to the wall."

"Yes, Mr. Mayberry. I was afraid you might feel that way. I've known from one or two things you have said that you were troubled about the business. But you see, we all feel that it is also quite imperative for your wife's full recovery that you be with her while she is recuperating. I am sure the doctor feels that the trip without you would not be of a lasting benefit that it would if you were along. It would be better to have even your business go to the wall than to have Mrs. Mayberry do so, wouldn't it?"

"Of course!" said the harassed father with a sigh. "But how am I to finance the trip at all if my business goes to the wall? And how are we to live afterward?"

"Well, now, that's just what I want to talk about. Perhaps I've given more thought to it all than you will feel I had a right to," said Lane pleasantly. "In the first place about that trip. I know a way that that can be accomplished for practically nothing. I've inherited from an old aunt a lovely old place in the mountains of Virginia where the air is fine and the neighborhood is so still you can almost hear the clouds go by. It has plenty of big, airy rooms, thoroughly furnished, and nobody is there but the housekeeper who used to companion my aunt before she died. She's all alone with the old cook who is past master at her trade of tempting appetites. I'm under obligation by the terms of the will to keep the place up as long as Mrs. Morton lives, even if I don't love it myself. So it's there and empty and ready for your occupancy as long as you and Mrs. Mayberry and the nurse want to stay. And you wouldn't need to feel under obligation to me, you know, for you'd only be returning the visit I made at your house when I had that long siege of typhoid fever once. How long was it I stayed with you? Four months, I think it was, and I probably wouldn't be living today if your wife hadn't nursed me and then fed me afterward till I was able to go back to work. And you didn't charge me a cent's worth of board, either, though I think I ate you out of house and home when I got better."

"But we loved to have you, son! And your father was my best friend for years!"

"Exactly so," said Lane, waxing more earnest. "And that's just why I claim the right to step in now and return the hospitality. And it isn't as though it will cost me anything, either, for it won't. Mrs. Morton has a garden with everything needful in it for food, and a cow and a lot of chickens, and there's an old gardener who attends to it all. It's there anyway, and plenty for a lot more than use it. So much for the trip. And, of course, I will take you all down in my car! That goes without saying!"