Transcriber’s note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A bank-note,” she said slowly,

putting it into my hands.

 

 

 

Won at Last

Or

Mrs. Briscoe’s Nephews

 

BY

 

AGNES GIBERNE

 

AUTHOR OF

“THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE,” “FLOSS SILVERTHORN,”

“IDA’S SECRET,” ETC.

 

 

 

NEW EDITION

 

 

 

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW

 

 

 

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME.

THE GREAT WHITE QUEEN	By WM. LE QUEUX.
KING ALFRED THE GREAT	GORDON-STABLES.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE WHITE ROSE	GEORGE GRIFFITH.
BEHIND THE VEIL. A Story of the Conquest	E. S. HOLT.
WON AT LAST; or, Mrs. Briscoe ’a Nephews	AGNES GIBERNE.
WINNING AN EMPIRE. The Story of Clive	G. STEBBING.
UNDAUNTED. A Tale of the Solomon Islands	W. C. METCALFE.
OUT IN GODS WORLD; or, Electa’s Story	J. M. CONKLIN.
THE STORY OF MARTIN LUTHER	E. WARREN.
ROBIN TREMAYNE. A Reformation Story	E. S. HOLT.
HER HUSBAND’S HOME. A Tale	E. EVERETT-GREEN.
A REAL HERO; or, The Conquest of Mexico	G. STEBBING.
ALL’S WELL; or, Alice’s Victory	E. S. HOLT.
WAITING FOR THE BEST; or, Bek’s Story	J. M. CONKLIN.
THE KING’S DAUGHTERS. A Martyr Story	E. S. HOLT.
A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY	L. T. MEADE.
SISTER ROSE; or, The Eve of St. Bartholomew	E. S. HOLT.
JACK. The Story of an English Boy	Y. OSBORN.
THE CHILDREN’S KINGDOM	L. T. MEADE.
LADY SYBIL’S CHOICE. A Tale of the Crusades	E. S. HOLT.
THE KING’S LIGHT-BEARER	M. S. COMRIE.
CLARE AVERY. A Story of the Spanish Armada	EMILY S. HOLT.
OUR HOME IN THE FAR WEST	M. B. SLEIGHT.
LADY ROSAMOND; or, Dawnings of Light	L. E. GUERNSEY.
GOLDEN LINES; or, Elline’s Experiences	LADY HOPE.
OLDHAM; or, Beside all Waters	L. E. GUERNSEY.
TWO SAILOR LADS. Adventures on Sea and Land	GORDON-STABLES.
BEATING THE RECORD. A Story of Geo. Stephenson	G. STEBBING.
DOROTHY’S STORY. A Tale of Great St. Benedicts	L. T. MEADE.
ENGLAND, HOME, AND BEAUTY	GORDON-STABLES.
THE CHILDREN OF DEANS COURT	EMMA MARSHALL.
FACING FEARFUL ODDS. The Siege of Gibraltar	GORDON-STABLES.
LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE	GORDON-STABLES.
LADY BETTY’S GOVERNESS	L. E. GUERNSEY.
A STRANGE HOUSE	CATHARINE SHAW.
LIFE-TANGLES	AGNES GIBERNE.
WELL WON. A School Story	J. T. THURSTON.

More than Forty Volumes in Series

LONDON: JOHN F. SHAW & CO., 48, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.

 

 

 

CONTENTS.

 

CHAP.

 

I. CHERRY AND I

II. “SOME ONE UNEXPECTED”

III. WHAT TO DO WITH HER?

IV. THE PACKET OF LETTERS

V. ASKING ADVICE

VI. ANXIOUS THOUGHTS

VII. LOOKING OUT

VIII. DOING WORK

IX. BURDENS

X. DRAWING TOGETHER

XI. DOWN IN A VALLEY

XII. CAN AND CAN’T

XIII. THE YOUNG TEACHER

XIV. NEWS FROM AMERICA

XV. AN EXCURSION

XVI. JACK’S TROUBLE

XVII. THE NEW-COMER

XVIII. JACK AND HIS MOTHER

XIX. MEASLES

XX. THE BROTHERS

XXI. GOING AWAY

XXII. WHAT TO DO

XXIII. THE RESPONSE

XXIV. THE SACRIFICE

XXV. REFUSED AND ADMITTED

XXVI. A TELEGRAM

XXVII. THE READING OF THE WILL

XXVIII. OUR CHILD

 

 

 

WON AT LAST.

 

CHAPTER I.

CHERRY AND I.

 

“MOTHER,” Cherry said, slowly drawing some thread through her needle, and sighing,—“Mother, Cress wants another pair of outdoor shoes.”

It was the old story; Cresswell always wanting something new, and Cherry his twin-sister having to tell me of his needs. Jack did not require half so many things.

“Cress must wait a little longer,” I answered.

“I don’t think he can, mother,” Cherry said, lifting her quiet eyes to mine. “He spoke about it this morning, as he was starting for school. I told him I was afraid you mightn’t be able to get them just now; and he said he must have a pair.”

Cherry was at that time close upon sixteen. She had no pretensions to good looks, but was rather short, with a plump figure, and smooth hair. I never saw anybody with a more beautifully smooth head than my Cherry, or with more delicately clean hands. No matter what Cherry had to do, she always managed to keep herself nice. That word exactly describes her. She was perpetually busy, and ready to undertake any sort of work that had to be done; yet nobody ever came across Cherry in an untidy state. She never failed to look nice. I used to think I wouldn’t exchange this in our girl for any amount of mere prettiness.

“Cress’ 'must’ may have to go down before a stronger 'must,’” I said. Yet even while I spoke the words, I was wondering whether something else might not be given up instead. “How if there is not enough money to pay for the shoes?”

Cherry looked troubled, and made no immediate answer. She was putting a patch into a small pair of trousers, and her fingers went deftly on with their task. It was late in February, and the afternoons were growing quickly longer: no small comfort as regarded candles and work. We had much mending to get through, for the task of keeping six growing boys respectably dressed, upon our small income, proved to be one of increasing difficulty.

My husband was clerk in a London mercantile house. His father, old Mr. Hazel, had been a farmer in one of the midland counties. Had Robert taken to the same line, he might have done well. But neither my Robert nor his brother Churton seemed to have anything of the farmer in them. Robert came to London, expecting to make his fortune. He was fond of books, and his own family thought him clever; only there are so many clever men in the great city. He managed to get a small clerkship, and there he remained year after year.

Once or twice he had a slight rise, and that was all. When Robert fell in love with me, and we married, both of us were young, and life looked hopeful, and we expected all kinds of good things to happen. But by the time of which I am writing, Robert and I had pretty well left off looking for any change, except of course that by-and-by some of our boys would be out in the world. The difficulty was, how to get them out, and where to place them.

Robert’s position did not imply much money for a family of nine. We had no regular servant, beyond a girl in three times a week for half-a-day, to do some of the cleaning. Even this help we sometimes talked of giving up altogether.

My husband and eldest boy had not yet returned from the City, nor Cresswell and Owen from school. The three younger boys, Frederick, Robert, and Edmund, varying in ages from ten to seven, were learning their lessons in the basement-room. I could trust them all, even my little Ted, to keep to their work till it was done.

That was one comfort about our poverty, I had always spoken frankly to the children of our circumstances; and even the younger boys seemed to understand how, by care and steadiness, they might be a help instead of a hindrance to their father and me. Cresswell was the one exception. I should not like to say that he loved us less,—but—well, he certainly loved himself more; and that comes to the same thing.

Cress was clover and handsome. He knew this well, and always seemed to expect to be treated differently from the other boys. He was bent upon being some day rich and distinguished; yet he was not really fond of hard work, and without hard work how can one hope to succeed? I think he inherited something of Robert’s early wish to strike out a new line for himself, and to rise in the world. And Cress was not willing to learn from his father’s failure. It was useless to speak of that to him. He never could see why he might not do well; whether or no his father had so done. And of course no one could say that he might not; only we had no money to throw away upon doubtful experiments.

So Cress was a care to us all; not least to Cherry and me.

Jack, our eldest, my dear good Jack, was a year and a half older than Cresswell; and was in every way a contrast to him. Jack was a fine well-grown lad, strong and active enough in body, but not very quick in mind. At least, he had not the quickness which would have helped him on in the line of life open to him.

Poor Jack! his slowness was a terrible worry to himself. He did so long to assist us all.

But at school he had always been the lowest in his class. And now he had left school, the same sort of thing went on. His handwriting was altogether at fault; he seldom spelt the same word twice alike; and he could make nothing of arithmetic. Naturally these things told against him. My husband’s employers would willingly have taken Jack on; and they did make trial of him: but it was of no use. They had to tell us kindly that Jack was not fitted for that sort of thing.

It seemed hard to know what he was fitted for. My husband found him work in another office, where so much was not expected of him, and now, he was trying to do his best. Yet none of us felt very hopeful.

He always looked so pleasant and good-tempered, and he was so full of kind-heartedness and thought for others, that it was impossible to blame him. Not one of my children lavished upon me a tithe of Jack’s tenderness. Still he could not learn his multiplication table, or write a decent hand, even for my sake.

“Mother,” Cherry said presently, “I don’t think Cress really believes that father means him to go to Peterson’s. I don’t think he counts it settled.”

Peterson & Co. was the firm to which my husband belonged.

“Does he not?” I asked. “It has been spoken of often enough.”

“Yes, I know,” Cherry answered, rather sorrowfully. “But Cress always says afterwards that it is bosh, and that he won’t go. He says he knows father will not make him. I think Cress has a sort of dream—of going through college and becoming a lawyer—a barrister, he calls it. He says he would get on then, and by-and-by he would be able to support us all.”

“And meantime!” I said. “My dear Cherry, your father’s whole income would not do much more than carry Cress through college. What does he suppose we are all to live on meantime?”

“Cress never seems to understand that money can’t be made to go farther than it can.”

“You must try to make him understand,” I said. “Sisters can do a good deal with their brothers, you know.”

“Not I with Cress, mother. He thinks nothing of anybody who is not clever, and I am so stupid.”

“Not stupid, Cherry.”

“Oh yes, mother. I am not clever—not a bit,” said Cherry, smiling, though I fancied tears were in her eyes. “Cress never cares for what I say. If it were Jack—”

Cherry’s face changed with the last four words. It is always supposed that twins are united by peculiar ties of affection; but if so, the present case was an exception. Cherry loved all her brothers, Cress included, no doubt; yet Jack was far more to her than Cress. How could it be otherwise? Jack was always good to his sister, while Cress incessantly contradicted and snubbed her. It was “only Cress’ way,” she said—as we all said; nevertheless it was a thing impossible that she should feel towards Cress as she felt towards sunny-tempered, loving-hearted Jack. I often thought Cherry’s love for our eldest boy was beautiful to see.

“Yes, if it were Jack!” I repeated. “There would be no need for any words then. Jack never has unreasonable wants.”

And for a minute or two we both praised Jack to our hearts’ content. I think it did us good. Cherry and I were quite at one on that subject. Then we both began to feel some compunction about Cress—our handsome, clever, spoilt Cress!

“After all, it isn’t Cress’ fault,” Cherry observed. “He never does understand about household matters like Jack.”

“It is time he should learn,” I said; but already my wise resolution was giving way. Cherry saw this at once.

“Mother, you meant to get me a new jacket soon. There’s no need. I can do without it one more year, and Cress can have his shoes.”

“My dear Cherry, you simply cannot squeeze yourself into the old jacket,” I said. “Think how long you have had it, and how much you have grown. It is so brown too.”

“I’ll try if I can’t freshen it up and put in one or two gussets somewhere,” Cherry said, in her bright way. “That will be the best plan. You see, mother, it won’t do to let Cress get his feet wet. It would make him ill. And he says he has holes coming in his best shoes, just where they can’t be properly mended.”

“He is a terrible hand at wearing out his clothes,” I said; yet I knew the matter to be pretty well settled.

“Then I can tell Cress, can’t I?” said Cherry. “And now I must go downstairs to see about tea.”

We did not dine late, but there was generally a slice of cold mutton or a chop for my husband at teatime, whether or no the children had had meat at our mid-day meal.

To save trouble, we had breakfast, dinner, and tea in the basement-room, close to the kitchen. Indeed, that was our only second sitting-room. The other ground floor room, behind the front parlour, had to be used for sleeping purposes.

Cherry always laid the table, and she did it in her own peculiarly dainty fashion. The food might be simple, might even be scanty, but the cloth was always white and smooth, and the china spotless.

On that particular day, I remember that we had a large loaf of brown bread, and a little pat of salt butter. Also there was a big plum-cake made by Cherry,—hardly more than dry bread with a few currants, yet the boys liked it.

The said boys had put away their lesson-books, and were clustering round the table. My fair-haired Ted was in his favourite seat, by my side.

I can recall so well my husband’s face as he sat opposite. The ceiling of the basement-room was low, and the light from the one gas-burner fell upon his haggard and furrowed face. He ought not to have been either haggard or furrowed yet, so far as age was concerned. We had been married eighteen years and more; but when our wedding took place Robert was only twenty-two, and I only eighteen.

That early marriage was foolish, of course. Friends told us so at the time, and we have seen it so since plainly enough. If we had been content to wait a few years, and to lay by something first, many an after-hour of heavy anxiety might never have come. But, like most young people, we counted our own way the best, and refused to hear advice. So the burdens of life fell upon us early.

I think they weighed more upon Robert than me. He might, from his look in those days, have been a man of fifty-five instead of only forty. His disposition was naturally more depressed than mine, for I had by nature a fund of high spirits which stood me in good stead, though the fund had become lower than of old. People said, however, that I looked young still,—more like Robert’s daughter than his wife. Fair hair often does not turn grey so soon as dark hair, even under worry; and I was very fair in colouring, as well as slight, and active, and impulsive. Cherry took more after her father than after me; but I do not think she resembled either of us closely.

Jack was very merry that evening, or he seemed so. It always did my heart good to hear his laugh; and I remember how often it sounded, and how I looked at him and Cress, wondering in my heart what was to be the future of those two boys. It is well for us that the future is hidden, and life’s volume unfolds page by page. Sufficient for the day is the duty as well as the evil thereof.

Jack was tall for his years, and broad-shouldered, with warm healthy colouring and honest grey eyes like Cherry’s. Cress was short and thin, with pale handsome features, and his curly light hair and blue eyes resembled mine. He seemed that evening listless and fretful—no uncommon event—and snapped often at Jack. But nothing ever put Jack out of temper.

 

 

 

CHAPTER II.

“SOME ONE UNEXPECTED.”

 

TEA was coming to an end when the postman’s knock sounded, and Ted rushed upstairs for what had come. That was his privilege, as our youngest. The postman was not wont to rap often at our door, for we had no spare money to spend in unnecessary correspondence.

“It’s for mother,” Ted cried, as he dropped a square envelope in front of me, and bounced down on his chair.

The arrival of a letter generally caused some excitement in our quiet life; but I knew well enough who it was from, even before my eyes fell upon the handwriting; and so did the others. My husband said, “Aunt Briscoe, of course;” for she was as regular as clockwork in her ways, and never failed to write to him or me on Thursday morning, so that we might hear on Thursday evening. I cannot say why she chose Thursday. Perhaps all her correspondents were parcelled out among the days of the week.

I did not expect the letter to contain anything of particular interest; still we were all pleased to hear from her.

Mrs. Briscoe was my husband’s Aunt by marriage; and in his boyhood she and her husband had often asked him and his younger brother Churton to stay with them, at their pretty little country home, not far from London. Mr. Briscoe had died only three years before the time of which I am writing. He had left all he had to his widow, and she lived on at “The Gables:” by no means then so country-like a residence as in Robert’s boyish days, yet pretty enough still.

Mr. Briscoe’s father had been a successful man in trade, and Mr. Briscoe himself had known how to take care of that which came to him. But the only child had died not long before Mr. Briscoe’s own death. It was a generally understood thing that Mrs. Briscoe would leave her money, or the chief part of it, to my husband.

Not that Robert and I could feel any certainty. We knew this to have been Mr. Briscoe’s wish and intention, and while he lived many a helpful gift had found its way to us. Mrs. Briscoe was of a different nature, however. Giving presents was not at all in her line; and nothing would have offended her more than to hear that we expected to receive anything at her death as a matter of course.

We were on pleasant terms, so far. She liked to see us sometimes; and she wrote regularly; and in her own way she was kind: yet we could no longer look to “The Gables” for help in times of difficulty.

I think Mrs. Briscoe was a well-meaning woman; but she had not the great gifts of sympathy and generosity.

The letter which came that evening I have by me still, though why I kept it I can hardly say. I read it first to myself, then aloud:—

“Well, Jack, are you a good boy?” I asked laughingly.

“No, mother, I’m afraid not,” Jack answered; and his face was overcast all at once. “I made some awful blunders to-day, and had a regular rowing.”

Ah, I might have guessed that something was wrong, when I saw him so extra merry.

“But it wasn’t your fault, Jack,” cried Cherry.

“I don’t know. They said it was.”

“Two and two made five, I suppose, by way of variety,” Cress said, with a superior air.

“No, not quite so bad as that,” Jack replied humbly.

I did not want to have any more about it in public; so I got up, and there was a general move. The children came flocking upstairs after us, but I soon sent the three youngest down again. My husband looked more than usually tired, and was quickly nodding in his arm-chair, instead of reading. Cherry stayed behind to wash up the tea-things. She was very quick, however, and in no long time came among us. Cresswell and Owen were learning their lessons, and Jack had taken a seat near me, with his chin on his hands, and his eyes following my needle.

“What a shame it is boys can’t work!” he said, as Cherry came in.

“I don’t see why they can’t,” said Cherry, taking up a half-knitted sock. “Some do.”

“My fingers are much too clumsy for anything of that sort,” said Jack.

“I don’t think your fingers are really clumsy, Jack,” Cherry answered, and she looked earnestly at him. “They are so clever at carpentering. And if any one is ill, your hands are so strong and gentle. It is only writing that they find difficult.”

“Stupid things!” Jack muttered, and he struck one hand with the other quite savagely. “Mother, what shall we do if they won’t keep me on there?”

“There” meant the office where he was at work.

“But they must, Jack,” Cherry said before I could speak. “You must please them.”

Her answer was so good that I attempted no other. We were silent for half a minute, and in that half minute there was a sharp peal at the front door. Cherry rose to answer it, but Owen forestalled her.

Owen came next after the twins in age. He was not quite fourteen, a steady lad, rather slow in his way of doing things, but always ready to help other people. Sometimes I wished I could put a little of my own quicksilver into him. Perhaps he did as well without it.

He left the room in his usual deliberate way; but his return was not so deliberate. There was a short parley outside, a childish voice chiming in with his. Then our door was flung wide open, and Owen came in with a leap, his face crimson.

“Father!” he cried. “Mother! She says she’s our cousin.”

Robert sat upright, startled out of his doze, hardly yet awake enough to speak. Cress muttered, “What a racket!” and I said, “My dear, what do you mean?”

“She says she’s our cousin. I’ll bring her in,” cried Owen.

He was off again before we could check him; and indeed I think we were all bewildered. The next moment Owen stood once more before me, and beside him was a girlish figure, not much shorter than Cherry, with thick fur round throat and wrists, and hair of pale flaxen curling down her back from under a small furry hat. The delicate little face showed no trace of colour, except in a pair of bright red lips and the black eyes looked wistfully up into mine.

“Are you Aunt Marion Hazel?” the rosy lips asked.

“My name is Marion Hazel,” I said coldly, while the boys drew round, and Cherry seemed spellbound. “But there must be some mistake. I have no niece.”

She turned slowly from me to my husband and back again.

“My name is Mary,” she said, “but every one calls me 'Maimie.’ I am Maimie Browne,—and my mother married Mr. Churton Hazel.”

“Churton! Is it possible?” said my husband. We had heard for years little or nothing of his only brother. Churton had spent a somewhat wild youth, and had gone out to Canada long before.

“Mr. Churton Hazel is my stepfather,” the girl said, standing still with clasped hands. “And after mother’s death he was so good to me. He often talked of 'Aunt Marion’ and 'Uncle Robert,’ and he has sent me to you. He said he would write and explain. He said you would give me a home—such a happy English home.”

“And so we will,” burst from impulsive Jack. “Mother, so we will.”

But I only looked at my husband, and said, “It seems a strange story.”

“Churton has never written,” said my husband. “It is nearly six years since his last letter to me.”

“But Maimie is our cousin, mother,” put in Cherry.

“Not exactly,” I said.

Maimie’s bright eyes were glancing from one to another. “Has not father written?” she asked, in a tone of surprise.

“No, my dear,” Robert said.

She sighed deeply, and murmured, “O how strange! He promised!”

“It is—very strange,” I said, and my voice sounded hard even to myself. “Very odd that no news should have reached us, even of my brother-in-law’s marriage.”

 

 

 

CHAPTER III.

WHAT TO DO WITH HER?

 

MAIMIE BROWNE looked steadily at me. Then she took off her hat, and the gaslight shone down upon such a head of soft flaxen hair, all curls and ripples. Was this a step towards making herself at home? Maimie pushed back some stray ripples from her forehead, and came a step nearer.

“Aunt Marion, don’t take me for an impostor,” she said. “O please do not. Indeed it is all quite true. Please don’t take me for an impostor.”

I was fairly at a loss what to say, and while I hesitated Jack burst out, “Nobody takes you for an impostor, cousin Maimie; of course it is all true!” And Cherry edged closer to me, whispering,—“Mother, shall Maimie sleep with me?”

“Really,” I found myself saying, “a little more proof seems needful. We do not know anything about your uncle’s marriage, Jack.”

“It was five years ago,” Maimie said readily. “I can show you letters which will prove everything, Aunt Marion. You will see it all,—truly you will.”

But for the first time she seemed to realise her position. A sudden flush passed over her face, and she clasped her hands.

“Oh, don’t, please don’t, send me out into those dreadful London streets. I should die there. I have no friends in England. Father made me come, though I wanted so much to stay with him. He said you would be so pleased,—indeed he did.”

It sounded very like Churton Hazel. I was obliged to admit this to myself.

Robert stepped forward, and gravely took her hand between his own. “My dear, do not be afraid,” he said. “We should not think of turning you out into the streets. But you must not be surprised that we think it right to make a few inquiries. Your stepfather has acted in a very strange manner,—in never telling us of his marriage, and in not writing about your coming. Where is he now?”

“In the States,” she said.

“Have you always lived in the States?”

“O no,—in Canada. We have lived in Canada. But he was not getting on well, and he heard of something to do in the States, and he said he couldn’t take me with him. I don’t exactly understand why. He said he must send me to you, until he could come to England for me, or else have me out to him there. And he seemed so sure that you and Aunt Marion would be pleased to have me for a few months.”

“What is your father’s present address?”

Maimie’s eyes gave a startled flash. “I don’t know,” she said. “He promised to write and tell you. He could not give me his address beforehand. I think he was going first to New York.”

“And you have travelled alone all the way from Canada?”

“Father saw me off. He put me in charge of the captain. And one of the passengers, Mr. Bowen, promised to see me to London. He had to go to Canterbury; but he put me into my cab, and I thought I was all right then.”

“How did your father know we were still living in the same house?” asked my husband. “Suppose you had found strangers here, Maimie,—what would you have done?”

There was another startled flash of the black eyes. “I don’t know. I never thought of such a thing. Father seemed so sure.”

Silence followed, and Jack said,—“Mother!” entreatingly.

I felt hard, and by no means inclined to respond. “It is an extraordinary tale altogether,” I said.

Maimie looked even paler than on first coming in. Her eyes travelled wistfully all round, and then she again pushed the wavy hair from her brow, with a faint sigh.

“I am so tired,” she said. “I wish I might sit down.”

Jack was bringing a chair instantly, and I saw him place her in it, with a look of kind and gentle encouragement. He had taken one of her little hands into his own as he did this, and the hand was kept by him. A smothered sob broke from Maimie, and Jack bent to one side, and exchanged a whisper with Owen. “Doesn’t Maimie want something to eat, mother?” asked Cherry.

I had never felt so utterly perplexed in my life, so bewildered as to my duty, so reluctant to accept an offered burden. Were we really called upon to support this stranger, thus thrust upon us? We had not enough for our own children. Yet what could be done? Cast a delicate girl, homeless and destitute, into the streets? Impossible. My heart would have been the first to cry out against that step: nevertheless it rose strongly against the only other step which seemed open.

“You had better go and cut some bread and butter downstairs,” I said coldly to Cherry. “And, boys, you may all leave us for a few minutes. Your father and I must speak with Maimie.”

Cherry and Owen obeyed at once. Cress moved slowly after them, with side glances of interest at the little flaxen head, which was drooping so gracefully, with one small hand over the eyes. The picture was very pretty, and evidently quite natural. The other hand was still in Jack’s clasp, and he stood still.

“Mother, shall I pay the cabman, and have Maimie’s trunk brought in?” he asked. “Owen says there is only one trunk. The man will be tired of waiting.”

I had it on my lips to say,—“No: let him wait a little longer.” But my husband spoke first, “Yes: do so, Jack.”

“There is nothing else to be done, I suppose,—for to-night,” I said unwillingly.

“And Maimie will sleep with Cherry?” asked Jack eagerly.

“Nothing is settled yet,” I answered, determined this time to be beforehand with Robert.

“Don’t be afraid, Maimie,” Jack said in a cheery tone, “It will all come right soon. I’m going now to see after your luggage.”

“Oh,—the cab!” she said, and drawing away her hand, she hurriedly pulled out a small purse. “Please pay him for me.”

I was glad not to be called upon for the cab fare, since our funds were very low. Jack disappeared, and Maimie’s fingers went over her eyes again. It was an attitude natural to her in distress, I found later. Robert and I exchanged looks. He signed to me to speak, and I shook my head. So then he went nearer, and sat down close beside Maimie.

“My dear,” he said.

Maimie lifted her head and looked up wildly. “Oh, I wish I hadn’t come! Oh, I do wish I hadn’t come!” she cried. “What shall I do? There’s nowhere else to go. If only I had stayed with father! He might have kept me there. I have no friends in England, nobody to care for me. Oh, if only I hadn’t come!”

“Hush, my dear; you must not be distressed. It will all be for the best. We shall see our way in time,” Robert said, in what he meant for a soothing manner. But I hardly think his words would have comforted me in Maimie’s place; and they were not successful with her either.

“Oh, I don’t know—I don’t know,” she said passionately. “It is so dreadful to be where one is not wanted. I would rather go anywhere. Couldn’t I work for my living? Is there no way that girls can earn money in England? Oh, if only I had not come!”

“How old are you, Maimie?” asked my husband.

“I am fourteen,—nearly fifteen,—and I feel older. Mother’s long illness, and all the nursing, and being alone so much since, seem to have made me older. Father said it would be good for me to have a few months in England, and to be with my cousins. But if I had known—if I had guessed—I would never never have come. I would have made father take me with him.”

“Maimie, I want you to listen to me for a minute,” my husband said, in the kind of still manner he put on always when troubled. “I am afraid you think your Aunt and me unkind not to welcome you more warmly.” The flaxen head made a quick nod. “But it is not unkindness. I want you to understand this. The truth is, your stepfather has put us into a difficulty. We are poor people, and it is not easy for us to get along at any time; and our house is already overcrowded. It is not so slight a matter as you think to find room and food for another.”

“Are you poor?” asked Maimie, with an astonished look. “I thought poor people lived in cottages.”

“Perhaps if we lived in a cottage we might have more money at command,” Robert replied. “Yes, we are poor, Maimie. It is often hard work to pay our way.”

“Father was always telling me that he was 'hard up,’” remarked Maimie. “But somehow we always had what we wanted.”

It sounded very like Churton Hazel again.

“But your stepfather had not seven children to provide for,” said my husband. “That makes a great difference. We are able to get very few things that we want.”

“Seven children!” repeated Maimie. “And while I am here it will be eight. But, Uncle Robert, my father will send money, of course. He said he would.”

“He has not even written yet,” I observed.

“Father can’t bear writing letters,” said Maimie. “He always puts off doing things that give him trouble. But he really did mean to write, and he soon will.”

My private belief was that Churton Hazel had really meant to do nothing of the kind.

“He ought not to have waited,” said Robert. “It was treating us wrongly.”

“Yes; I suppose so,” Maimie admitted reluctantly. “Only he does so hate writing. If you only knew how he hates it! Perhaps you will hear to-morrow—or next week.”

“I doubt it very much,” I said.

Maimie gazed at me with wonder.

“I do not suppose your stepfather meant to do anything more than to get you off his hands.”

The words escaped me without intention. I felt that they were wrong and unkind; wrong to be uttered, even if true, and certainly unkind to the child. Robert looked pained, and Maimie’s very lips whitened.

“It isn’t true,” she said. “Father does not want to get me off his hands. It is cruel to talk so. Father was always kind, and he never thought me a burden. I shall never never love you if you say such things, Aunt Marion,—never!”

Then, with a quick movement, her face was hidden, and she was sobbing violently.

It was rather an unpleasant moment. I was vexed, alike with myself and with Maimie. We were both at first silent, but soon my husband said—

“Maimie, that was wrong. You must not speak so.”

“Aunt Marion is cruel—cruel,” sobbed Maimie. “Poor father!”

“Hush! I cannot allow any more of this. You understand me? There is no unkindness in the question.”

Robert’s very quietness gave added force when he chose to speak with decision. Maimie lifted her head and looked at him with eyes that were half-defiant, half-beseeching.

“Father couldn’t do such a thing,” she said huskily. “Poor father! I would go back to him this moment if I could.”

The independence of tone struck me as curious. She was nearly three years younger than my submissive Cherry. I half expected an apology to myself after Robert’s rebuke; but none came.

“Mother!” Jack called at the door, “may I come in?” He entered without waiting for leave. “Cherry has tea almost ready to pour out; and I have taken Maimie’s trunk down into the basement. Cherry doesn’t know where it could stand in her room. Is everything settled, mother?”

“Nothing is settled,” I replied, “except that of course Maimie Browne must stay here for a day or two, as she has nowhere to go, until we can find other relations.”

“I haven’t any other relations. I am going to work for my living after a day or two,” Maimie said. The defiant look came again as she faced me, her colour rising and her eyes sparkling.

“Bosh!” said Jack indignantly.

My husband laid his hand on her arm. “Maimie,” he said, “you must not wilfully misunderstand us or count us unkind.”

“Not you, Uncle Robert!” and she threw herself upon him and sobbed again, with her flaxen waves of hair flowing over his shoulder. He petted and comforted her, and Jack finally led her away with an air of admiring protection.

I felt strangely icy at heart. When they were gone I took up my work, and said nothing. Neither did my husband utter a word. I think he wished to leave me time for thought, perhaps for prayer. But I was in no mood just then for looking upward.

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV.

THE PACKET OF LETTERS.

 

THIS silence lasted, I suppose, some eight or ten minutes, each waiting for the other to speak first.

Then the door burst open, and Maimie rushed in,—her eyes sparkling, and a packet of papers in her hand.

“Look!” she cried,—“these are for you to see, Uncle Robert,—and Aunt Marion too, if she likes. Three are letters from father to me—one before he married mother, and two afterwards. And there are letters from him to mother, which she gave me, and told me I was to keep. And the others are between mother and me, when I was at school, and she was thinking of marrying again. I didn’t like it at all then, for I did not know he would be so kind to me.”

She laid the letters on my husband’s knee, breathing quickly with excitement. I saw Jack hovering outside the door, in attendance on her steps. He thrust his head in now, and said,—“Come, Maimie! Couldn’t get her to touch a drop of tea, till the box was open, and she had hauled out those papers. Come along, Maimie!”

And Maimie went. I kept silence still; and my husband as silently opened the uppermost letter, and read, passing it on to me. He was always a man of few words. I, on the contrary, was burning to speak; yet a certain dread of saying the wrong thing restrained me.

The letters between Maimie and her mother made the matter clear enough. They were very free and affectionate outpourings. Mrs. Browne spoke cautiously at first of a certain Mr. Hazel, but very soon went on to the mention of a coming stepfather. Maimie’s answers were full of passionate remonstrances, gradually lessening. A kind little note from Churton came in here, addressed to the excited school-girl. “Churton himself!” my husband murmured over it, and I could have echoed the words. The two from him, after the marriage, were equally characteristic. He called her rather effusively, “his dear little fair-haired dove.”

“By no means a dove-like nature,” I muttered.

The two or three letters from Churton Hazel to his wife came last; and had any further proof been needed they would have supplied it.

“Well,” my husband said at length. He pressed the little pile of papers together, sighed, and turned to me. “Well, Marion?”

“Churton has acted disgracefully,” I said.

“He means to write, I have no doubt.”

“I have very strong doubts.”

“Churton generally means to do the right thing, my dear,—but he very seldom does it.”

“The question now is what to do with the girl,” I said impatiently.

“Of course we must keep her till we hear from him,” observed Robert, a touch of hesitation or timidity coming into his voice.

“I don’t see any 'of course’! She is no relation,—has no claim upon us.”

Robert moved his head,—whether in assent or dissent I could not tell.

“And we cannot afford to support her, Robert. We cannot possibly afford it. She must go.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere.” My husband’s composure exasperated me. “That is for you to decide. I only know that we cannot afford to keep her.”

“Till Churton writes,” suggested Robert.

“And suppose he does not write at all? As likely as not, this is a trick for getting rid of her.”

“Marion, don’t hint that to Maimie again.”

“No,” I said. “But it is probably the truth.”

“We have no reason for supposing so,” said Robert.

“Well,—think as you like,” I said shortly. “I only know one thing,—that we cannot keep her.”

“But, my dear Marion, what do you propose to do with the child?” asked Robert seriously.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I only know we cannot afford any extra expenses. And you know it too. The pull upon us now is terrible.” My voice choked as I spoke. “It is no rare thing that the children have barely enough to eat. And as for clothes—”

“I do not forget all that,” he said sadly.

“And yet you want to take up this burden too!”

“I! no,” he said, in a low voice. “I do not want it. But what if our Master gives it to us to be carried?”

Both were silent, till Robert said again, “That is my feeling. And also,—I do not think one can ever be really the poorer for money lent to God.”

No doubt this was true. But money given grudgingly is not lent to God. I had the thought strongly in my mind, yet could not utter it.

“Come, Marion, my love,—” and he looked anxiously at me,—“you know as well as I do that only one path lies open to us. We must give the child shelter for a little while. Possibly on inquiry we may find some clue to Churton’s whereabouts,—or he may write. In any case we must have time to consider our next step.”

“Could you not consult Aunt Briscoe?” I asked suddenly.

“Would she give advice that I could follow?”

“I think she would like to be consulted,” I said.

“Well, there is no harm in talking matters over with her. I think I can arrange to go for half-a-day on Saturday. And you must come with me, Marion, instead of Jack or Cherry. That will please Aunt Briscoe, and we shall enjoy the little trip together.”

I did not think I could enjoy anything just then; but I made no objection to the plan.

Maimie came up presently from the basement-room, with one arm linked in Cherry’s, and a circle of fascinated boys hovering round. Nobody seemed to feel as I did about the intruder.

Food and rest had brought back a delicate tint to her cheeks, and the black eyes were shining with a satisfaction in which I had no share. But as she crossed the room, a look of anxiety dawned, and she went straight to my husband’s side.

“Have you read the letters, Uncle Robert?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes, Maimie.”

“And it is all true, isn’t it? I am not an impostor. Your brother really is my stepfather.”

“Yes, it is all quite true,” Robert said. “There can be no mistake about my brother’s handwriting.”

“I am so glad you are convinced. It was dreadful just at first, when I almost thought I was going to be turned out into the street.”

She gave a half shudder, and crept closer to him. Robert’s arm went round her, and the flaxen head lay on his shoulder.

“Oh, that is so nice,—so nice. It’s like mother.”

A sigh broke into the words. She must have been very tired, for after sitting thus for some minutes she dropped asleep. A “hush” among the children first drew my attention.

I could not help lifting my eyes from time to time, just for a look. Maimie asleep was even more lovely than Maimie awake. The parted lips had such a sweet sad curve.

Robert would not have her disturbed. He was not generally caressing in manner, but Maimie had won upon him from the first moment. I wondered if Cherry would feel jealous. But no,—Cherry was knitting away with a bright face, glancing often from Maimie to Jack with looks of positive delight. Jack simply sat and watched Maimie, in his favourite attitude, propping his chin on the palms of his hands, and seeming oblivious of everything else. Cresswell made scant advance with his lessons that night; and even steady Owen worked with but fitful attention.

It must have been at least an hour before Maimie awoke. When she did, I saw a tremulous start, and her eyes wandered round in bewilderment. “Mother!” burst from her lips, and then there was a mournful,—“Oh, I forgot;” and a deep sigh.

Jack could not stand it. He sprang up, and came a step or two nearer, saying quite pitifully,—“Don’t, Maimie,—please don’t, Maimie.”

My husband put his arm round Maimie afresh; and Cherry left her work to comfort the girl. But I could say and do nothing. I felt as if I stood alone,—outside the circle interested in Maimie. It was the first time I had ever known the sense of separation between me and mine. And there is no separation like heart-separation.

“Maimie is tired out now. She will feel better in the morning,” Cherry said cheerfully.

“Oh, I wish I hadn’t come! Oh, I do wish I hadn’t come!” I could hear Maimie murmur in smothered tones.

“You mustn’t wish that, Maimie, because we are all so glad to have you,” said Jack. “We’ll do our very best to make you happy.”

“Maimie, I shall take you to see St. Paul’s and the Tower, and all sorts of London sights,” put in Cress, as his offered share of consolation.

“Not Westminster Abbey. You’ll leave that to me,” Jack said, with a touch of unwonted sharpness. “And the Houses of Parliament, and—”

“There is plenty for everybody to show Maimie,” said Cherry, in her peace-making way. “But I think she wants nothing now so much as to go to bed. Mother, may she—without waiting for prayers? she is so tired.”

“Maimie may go when she pleases,” I answered, hearing again the hard sound in my voice.

“I’ll go up with you, Maimie, and see that everything is comfortable,” Cherry said kindly. “Don’t cry any more, but come.”

And she was led away, sorrowful still. I think I just kissed her, yet not cordially or willingly. If I saw that the burden had to be accepted, at least for a while, I would not take my share of it with a free heart.

 

 

 

CHAPTER V.

ASKING ADVICE.

 

THE day of Maimie Browne’s unexpected appearance was Thursday; and my husband decided to go to “The Gables” on Saturday, taking me with him. I should have enjoyed the prospect a good deal, but for this new anxiety about Maimie, and what to do with her. Robert and I so seldom went away together.

Friday passed quietly. I did not see much of Maimie, for she was in constant request among the boys; and she seemed quite happy, flitting from room to room, with a show of being busy, yet doing very little.

Once I advised her to sit down and work, suggesting that she might have mending to do. She said,—“No, there was nothing to mend;” and then very prettily offered to help Cherry. Bub before the thimble had been ten minutes in use Maimie was gone again; and once gone she did not quickly return. There seemed a restlessness upon the child which she could not control. At the time it vexed me. Now I can look back with a better understanding of how she felt her position.

Not many words passed that day between her and me. I did not wish to speak hastily, so grieving Robert; yet I could by no means feel cordially towards Maimie, or like to have her in the house.

Her manner annoyed me often. She was so entirely independent, and seemed not to have a notion of asking anybody’s leave about anything. With the boys she was all sparkle and brightness; with Cherry and my husband all sweetness and clinging affection. But with me there was constantly a look of slight defiance, as if she expected a battle. I knew this to be partly my own doing, but that made self-command no easier.

Saturday came, and after early dinner my husband and I started. There had been a good deal of discussion among the boys, as to where Maimie should go, and who should escort her. Jack and Cress had never come so near a downright quarrel before. As a rule, Cress’ sharp words seemed to have no power over Jack, but he showed unwonted irritation that day.

Maimie seemed rather to enjoy the dispute, looking from one to another with her bright eyes, and making no attempt to smooth down the difficulty.

But Cherry as usual did her best to keep matters straight. She proposed that the three elder boys should all have Maimie in charge, taking her by omnibus to Westminster, and showing her as much as they were able in a given time. Cress resisted, having set his heart on something else. After a while, however, he came round, and so it was settled. Cherry herself was unable to go in my absence, for she had the younger children in charge.

The boys were fond of saving up what little pocket-money they possessed for half-holiday trips; and I knew I should not be called upon for omnibus fares.

Meanwhile my husband and I started on our own separate excursion.

Aunt Briscoe was at that time getting on in years; yet she never had the air of being an old woman. Still less would one have described her as “a dear old woman.” There was about her nothing of the softness and mellowness of age. Some people’s angles rub off, and their natures grow rounder and smoother, with time’s action. But other people’s corners harden and become sharper year by year. I think the last was what happened to Aunt Briscoe.

“Well!” she said, when we entered, “this is an unlooked-for pleasure, to be sure! Robert and Marion together!” And her voice left me quite in doubt whether she really counted it a pleasure at all.

“Yes,” I said. “Robert wished me to come with him for once, Aunt. We don’t often go anywhere in company.”

“No, you don’t,” she said. “But that was only to be expected. People who choose to marry as young as you two did, can’t look for much ease and leisure in after life.”

“I have no doubt we should do the same again, if we had the same choice over again,” Robert said, giving me a kind look.

But this was an unfortunate remark, for Aunt Briscoe had not married at all young herself.

“I hope you would not,” she said sharply. “It’s bad enough when one person won’t learn from another’s experience. But if you would not learn even from your own, why, all I can say is, that you must be downright idiots.”

Aunt Briscoe was apt to be more plain-spoken than polite. It is a common fault, especially in old age, with those who have accustomed themselves to the use of strong words all through life. We were used to this, and knew how to meet it. Robert saw that he had made a mistake; and he took care not to double his mistake by carrying on the subject.

“How are the children?” she asked presently. “Has Jack been a good boy lately?”

“Very good,” I said. “Jack always is the best of sons to us.”

“Jack is his mother’s favourite, that’s easily seen,” said Aunt Briscoe. “You’d better take care it isn’t a case of being 'fond and foolish.’ But how is he doing his work? Giving satisfaction?”

“He does his best, I really believe,” my husband answered. “Poor Jack is not clever, you know.”

“Fudge!” Aunt Briscoe replied, in a tone of contempt. “Not clever indeed! As if the biggest dunce couldn’t learn to spell if he chose! Jack likes amusing himself.”

“Oh, but indeed it is not that,” I burst out. “Jack tries so hard.”

But Aunt Briscoe looked straight at my husband and went on, just as if I had not spoken—

“And how about Cress?”

“Cress certainly seems sharper than poor Jack,” said Robert. “We count him our clever one, Aunt Briscoe. Still, he is not too fond of hard work.”

“Cleverness is no use in the world unless there’s hard work to back it up,” Aunt Briscoe said. “The boys ought to have been made to work when they were young. That’s where the fault lies.”

I knew this to be a fling at me, and I chafed under it, for the fling was really undeserved. I had never been over-indulgent with my boys in that way; and Cress was the only one among them all who had not turned out a fairly steady hand at work. Perhaps I had been a little too easy with him in consequence of his health. But, anyhow, Cress’ faults were always my faults in Aunt Briscoe’s eyes, while the other boys’ virtues were their own virtues. Still, though I felt all this, I said nothing, for Robert’s sake.