Maris (32 page)

After it got too dark to paint, the two young men would frequently call up Mr. Mayberry on the telephone and consult him about the business, carefully planning their questions so that they would be calculated to reassure him rather than to worry.

But there was always a few minutes at the end of the evening when Maris and Lane would manage a quiet talk together, sometimes a bit of a walk in the moonlight, sometimes a few minutes sitting among the hemlocks. Though Merrick didn't give them much time alone. It hadn't occurred to him they would want it. He was all full of the business and talked with Lane constantly, trying to plan ahead for his father.

It was almost as if they had always been together in family interests.

"Good night, Lane," said Merrick one night. "You act just as if you really belonged to the family!" And then suddenly he caught a glance between Maris and Lane, a glance of radiancy.

"Perhaps I do," said Lane dryly.

"Well, you certainly belong a lot more than ever that poor fish of a Tilford did," said Merrick. "I certainly wish you had been around before he ever moved to town."

"Well, I was," Lane said, grinning, with another sly glance at Maris. "Have you forgotten?"

"No, I haven't forgotten," said Merrick, "but I was just trying to figure out how Maris ever had anything to do with that half-baked jellyfish after she'd once seen you."

Lane reached over in the soft darkness and caught Maris's hand silently, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Yes?" said Lane comically. "I've often wondered about that myself. How about it, Maris?"

"You're getting much too personal," said Maris, jumping up. "Let's go and take a walk, Lane."

So they walked away into the shadows and left Merrick to wonder, and to speculate, and to wish that Lane were really his brother so that there would be no more need to worry as to what would happen when Tilford got back and Mother got well.

Then the very next day, Mr. Thorpe came to call on Maris.

Luckily, no one but Maris knew him, so there was no excitement about it. Sally merely announced to her that a gentleman in the parlor wanted to see her. So Maris washed the paint off her nose and one eyebrow and went downstairs. A book salesperson, she thought it might be. She was well into the living room before she recognized him.

He arose almost shyly, watching her come, and held out an apologetic hand tentatively.

"Perhaps you wish I hadn't come," he said softly. "I wouldn't blame you at all if you did."

Maris in a sudden rebound of pity reached out her hand and grasped his, giving him a shy, half-frightened smile. It wasn't any of it his fault, of course.

"You see, I've just found out what Tilford did, and I've come to apologize. Of course, I know no apology can ever atone for a thing like that, and I'm not going to try to excuse my son. He did a very terrible thing. He oughtn't to have done it. My only consolation is that it was instigated by his love for you--at least I sincerely hope that was the reason----although my knowledge of his life thus far might make it just as possible that it was done purely to have his own way. I have to be honest and state that that might have had a great deal to do with it. You perhaps do not know, could not realize, that Tilford has always had his own way and cannot brook being crossed in anything, even if he only
thinks
he wants it. Though I sincerely trust that this time it was because he really wanted you that he dared to do this dreadful thing. But that is no excuse whatever for his having committed a crime, for it was a crime to try and kidnap you and force you to marry him. So I have come to you to make what amends are possible. I scarcely dare ask you to forgive my son. Of course, it is his place to ask, not mine, but as his father I must ask you that for my own respite. I have never suffered such anguish as since I knew what my boy dared to do."

Suddenly Maris put out her hand.

"Please don't, Mr. Thorpe," she said gently. "It was not your doing, I am sure of that. And as for forgiving your son, I can forgive, of course, and I will. But I must tell you honestly that I can never marry him. You see, even before he attempted to force me to do what he wanted at a time when I did not feel free from home obligations, I discovered that I never had really loved him enough to marry him. And even if he had not hopelessly put himself where I would never dare trust him again, there was a bigger barrier than that separating us."

"I am not surprised," said the old man with a deep sigh. "Indeed, I must admit that I was absolutely amazed that Tilford had been able to secure the love of such a wonderful girl as you are. I felt that you had great depth of character, great sweetness, and rare culture. I can only grieve that you are not to be a part of our family. But I knew all the time you were too good for my boy and he would only bring you sorrow. For your sake, I am glad you found out in time. You have something almost heavenly about you, something--God given, I would call it----and I feel that through my son you have been greatly dishonored by his attempt to carry you away to a foreign land without your consent. So I have come to humbly offer my apologies and beg you to understand that I knew nothing of the plan, or I would certainly have made it impossible before the indignity was put upon you. I want you to know that I personally deeply regret the whole matter and long to have your forgiveness."

"Why, of course, Mr. Thorpe," said Maris earnestly. "I never connected you with it in any way. And I am entirely willing to forgive what has been done, with the understanding that Tilford and I are to be strangers from now on. God forgives. Why should I not? Perhaps I was to blame in the first place for having let Tilford think I loved him. Perhaps I did not understand my own heart at first."

"You are a very wonderful little girl," said the old man, deeply moved. "You have something that I wish we all had. You have a God that I wish was mine."

"Oh, Mr. Thorpe, I am sure you can have my God. He is glad to accept everyone who comes to Him through His Son, Jesus Christ. He loves you. He sent His Son to die for you, and I know He longs to have fellowship with you."

"It may be so!" sighed the old man humbly. "I only wish it might be!"

"But it is so!" insisted Maris eagerly. "I know, for I have just been finding out what He has wanted for a long time to be to me, and I was so full of the world I would not let Him. Wait! Let me show you!"

Maris reached over and picked up her New Testament that she had been reading just before dinner.

"Here it is," she said eagerly, handing him the little book. "Won't you take this home with you and study it? It is God's own word to you. You have only to believe it and trust Him. Here--" She turned down a page, pointing to a marked verse: " 'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' "

"And here--" she added, fluttering the leaves over a litter farther to Revelation: " 'Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.' "

She handed him the book.

"Keep it," she said. "I have another. You'll find it is wonderful if you will just give yourself to the study of it."

He looked at her wonderingly, with a kind of worship in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said brokenly. "I only wish God could have granted me the gift of such a daughter as you would have been. I only wish I might have brought up my son to be worthy of you. But no matter. I don't wish to distress you. I shall always look upon you as one I could have loved deeply as a daughter. But I know you are right in your decision. May God greatly bless you, and may you sometime be able to forget the shameful way in which my son treated you."

He turned to go out the door, and then, fingering the leaves of the Testament, he looked back at her again.

"I shall--always--treasure--this little book. I shall study it because you have given it to me. I hope--I shall someday find your God and get to know Him. I thank you," he said brokenly.

Then with his head bowed and tears blurring his eyes, he went out the door slowly, sadly down the walk to his car.

Maris stood in the doorway and watched him, tears coming into her eyes. Poor lonely old man! He was the only one of the Thorpe family she could have loved and honored! Would he find the Lord in the little book she had given him? She must pray that the Lord would lead him in His own way to peace and rest in Himself.

"Well, I suppose that old bird came to try and patch things up with you and his precious son, didn't he?"

It was Merrick's voice just behind her that spoke with a keen dislike in his tone.

Maris turned, and Merrick caught the glint of tears in her eyes.

"Yes, and you're just soft enough to be caught by it, too, I'll warrant," he challenged her.

"No, Merrick," she said, brushing the tears away from her face. "You're all wrong. He didn't come to patch it up at all. He came to apologize."

"Aw, baloney! That was just his line. He knew he'd get you that way. Good night! I thought you'd had lesson enough. I didn't think you'd fall for that fellow again, the poor weak simp!"

"Stop!" said Maris sharply. "Don't talk that way anymore, Merrick. I'm not falling for anybody. I'm just sorry for that father. He's ashamed of his son!"

"Yes, in a pig's eye he is! Whyn't he bring him up right, then? Whyn't he teach him a few plain morals, I'd like to know? Why does he think you've gotta stand for all his mistakes?"

"Oh, but he doesn't!" said Maris. "I told him plainly I had found out I never really loved his son. I told him I never could trust him again, even if I loved him."

"Ah,
hooey
!" muttered Merrick. "You'll fall again when that guy gets back from Europe. You fell before for a pretty face and a languid air, and I suppose you'll fall again. Mother'll get well and then havta get sick all over again worryin' about ya. Good night! What's the use of painting the house and fixing things up if you're going through the same performance again? I'm sick of it all!"

Maris glanced up in distress, and there stood Lane, looking from one to the other.

"Oh, Lane!" said Maris in relief. "Tell Merrick--about us! Make him understand how silly he is."

Lane stepped over and put a strong arm around Maris.

"What's this all about, sweetheart?" he asked and then bowed his head over her and kissed her gently.

"Why, you see, Mr. Thorpe, it seems, has just found out about things and he is terribly ashamed, and he came to ask my pardon for what his son had done. And Merrick won't believe that I'm not going to run away to Europe and marry Tilford in spite of everything. You'd better tell him the truth."

Lane gathered Maris's free hand into his.

"All right, here goes! Listen, fella, you're making a big mistake. Your sister is not going to marry Tilford Thorpe because she's already fallen for somebody else. It's true Maris is going to be married sometime, as soon as it seems wise taking everything into account, but it's me she's going to marry, and not Tilford Thorpe. So, now, if you've anything to say against that, speak now or forever after hold your peace! We'd have told you some time ago, if we hadn't felt we ought to tell your father and mother first of all. But since you had to get up in arms about that poor sorrowful old man, perhaps it's just as well to make it all plain right now."

Merrick's face was a study as he listened to Lane. Amazement, incredulity, dawning belief, overwhelming joy succeeding one another quickly.

"Oh, but I say, Lane," he exclaimed huskily, "this is too good to be true! This is the greatest thing ever! Say, I don't deserve this! I'm a chump if ever there was one. I--ask your pardon, Maris! I ought to have known you had more sense than I supposed!"

They had an evening of rejoicing as they worked away together more one in spirit than they had ever seemed to be before.

"Say, I wish Dad and Mother knew about it!" said Merrick as he put on finishing touches to the door into his mother's room. "Do you know, I believe that would do more than anything else to cure Mother. Why don't you and Maris run down and tell them?"

"She might not like it," said Lane with a troubled look.

"
Like
it!" said Merrick. "My eye! What do you think my mother is? Don't you know she's been worried lest Maris'll go back to that dud Tilford?"

Maris gave him a quick glance.

"I wish I'd known that, Merrick. It might have opened my eyes sooner," said Maris with a sigh.

"Well, I doubt it," said Merrick. "If you couldn't see how Mother felt without anybody telling you, nothing would have done any good. Let's just be glad you've got them open now."

"Well, how about it, Maris? Will you run down with me for a day and tell your mother?" asked Lane eagerly.

"I'd love to," said Maris wistfully, "but it would worry her terribly to have me go away and leave the children."

"Nonsense!" said Merrick. "Why can't you get that night nurse to come here for a couple of days till you get back? The kids love her, and she makes them mind like anybody's mother."

And so at last it was settled that if the night nurse could be prevailed upon to look after the children, Maris and Lane would drive down early Saturday morning and stay over Sunday, or part of Sunday, and break the news gently.

Then work went merrily on. The little boys and the two little girls entered eagerly into the plan of trying to get the house in order for Mother and were terribly pleased to have the night nurse in charge. They felt quite grown up and important to be left behind, and so Maris and Lane got ready for their expedition with great joy in their hearts and such a light in their faces that Gwyneth told her sister, "Why, Maris, you look as if you had morning in your eyes!"

But it was not until their visit was completed, when with the blessing of the happy parents upon them both they started back home, that they fully realized the great joy of belonging to each other. If Tilford could have caught a glimpse of their faces during that Sunday afternoon as they made their way homeward, he would have known instantly that the idle dream of finally marrying Maris after all, which he still cherished now and again between his various flirtations, would never be realized. For there was something gorgeous and glorious, something really eternal in quality, in the joy of their glances that was almost blinding to an observer.