Maris E-Book

Grace Livingston Hill

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

On the eve of her brilliant society wedding, beautiful Maris must face the true meaning of love. Beautiful young Maris Mayberry is ecstatic over her upcoming marriage to wealthy Tilford Thorpe. Then disaster strikes—Maris’s precious mother collapses and becomes dangerously ill. Maris turns to Tilford for comfort and understanding only to encounter a haughty decree: The wedding must go on as planned, whether her mother lives or dies! Indignant, Maris begins to doubt Tilford’s love and character—especially when a handsome friend from her past shows her real love and support. But the final blow comes when Maris finds herself enmeshed in a dangerous plot—formulated and executed by none other than Tilford himself! Now Maris sees the agonizing choices she must make… but is it too late?

Leseprobe

Grace Livingston Hill

MARIS

Copyright

First published in 1938

Copyright © 2019 Classica Libris

Chapter 1

Maris Mayberry awoke slowly that Wednesday morning, and even before her eyes were open she had a heavy consciousness upon her of something being wrong, just a faint uneasiness, like a small, dully tinted cloud on the horizon that seemed to carry a sense of menace. What was it? She groped for it in her thoughts and tried to bring it to life again, that she might dispel it from her new day and prove by morning’s light that it had been nothing real and it need no longer burden her soul.

But the uneasiness continued, and she roused herself to search for it. What had she been doing last night? Where had she been? She had been out late, for even with closed eyelids she sensed that it was midmorning, and Mother must be letting her sleep late.

Oh, now she knew! She had been out with Tilford. She had been to a grand family dinner. All the Thorpes had been there, and it had been very formal. The dinner had not been served till half past eight, and they had sat at the table over two hours. And then there had been a long time afterward when she had been carefully taken over by each separate member of the Thorpe family and instructed in the history and traditions of the clan.

It had been a long process, and most depressing. When it was over, she had felt very small and unworthy to enter even the fringes of such an august body.

But that had not been the real weight of her burden. It had not quite come to the surface of her mind yet, but she felt intuitively that it was going to be fully as disturbing this morning, when she did remember it, as it had been the night before.

It had been rather late when they left the Thorpe mansion, for at the last minute after some of the cousins had left they had taken her up to the gallery and shown her the old family portraits, great oil paintings by famous artists, set in huge, hideous gold frames. She had realized that this was a sort of final rite that was being performed upon her before she should be considered eligible to go on with her preparations for the nuptials.

But even the great gallery with the ancestors set in gold had not depressed her. She had known about them and been told before by Tilford of the high points in each one’s biography. She had been duly impressed by the ladies in high ruffs and puffs and chignons, and the gentlemen in knee breeches and lace ruffles and wigs. She had even found some crisp, original comments to make upon each that showed she appreciated their nobility and stood in awe in their august presence. No, it was not the picture gallery that lay heavily on her mind. They were only painted ghosts of the dead. They could not disturb her future.

They had come away at last. She had received chilly kisses from her future mother-in-law and two aunts-in-law, and formal handclasps from the men of the family. Then Tilford had brought her away in his luxurious car, and she had tried to realize that in a few days now, three brief weeks to be exact, she was going to belong in that car. She would be a part of a life of luxury. It didn’t seem real yet, but the glamour of it all had carried her so far, and someday of course she would realize it and take it as a matter of course. Still, such thoughts had not disturbed her. Now she was coming to it. She could see its shadow just a few steps ahead. Ah! Here it was!

They had turned into her home street, the moonlight shining very brightly on the house. Just the plain old white house where she had been born, big and roomy and comfortable and shabby. She hadn’t thought of its shabbiness before. It had just been home to her, and always very dear. But now, in sudden contrast to the luxury where she had been all the evening, it stood out sharply there in the moonlight. Shabby! That was what it really was! And it was too late to do anything about it now before the wedding!

Suddenly she had spoken her thought, interrupting Tilford’s eulogy of one of the ancestors whose portrait they had seen.

“This home needs painting!” she said. “It ought to have been done before. It must be looked after just as soon as we get back!”

Tilford had stopped abruptly and given her a strange questioning look, as if he were seeing something in her he had never seen before, and then a quick caution came into his eyes, an amused curve about his lips.

“That will scarcely need to trouble you by that time,” he said almost curtly. “You will not be there anymore, you know. It will no longer be your interest what the house looks like. You will seldom see it, of course. You will belong in another world.”

And she had given him a quick startled look, seeing suddenly things she had never realized before, possibilities that loomed with sharp premonition and now, overnight, had become a burden, a heavy, menacing cloud on her horizon.

As if it had been a little bundle, the contents of which she suspected but had never seen, she deliberately took the fear and undid its wrappings, searching what was to be found therein.

What had that look of Tilford’s meant? Had he intended to let her see it, or was it something he was concealing till afterward? Oh, that could not be. Surely he was only trying to remind her of the beautiful house where she had been all evening and the beautiful life that was to be hers!

Yet she must face this thing and get rid of it. She could not have an uneasiness hovering even on the edge of her mind through these strenuous days. What was it that had caused that sudden startled pain in her heart? A pain that she had refused to recognize that night. She had commandeered sleep to drown it away last night. Better face it now once and for all.

Was it the sudden knowledge that when she was married she would be leaving forever everything else that was dear to her?

Nonsense! What a foolish idea! Her family would still be her family, and as dear as ever. They would rejoice in her good fortune. They would be pleased and proud of her and would enjoy many things that they had not been able to enjoy before.

But wait! Would they? Would her dear quiet father and her sweet-faced mother ever come to know and like and fit in with all those Thorpes? Even just casually? Ever feel like holding their own along that gallery of ancestors?

She was not ashamed of her family. They were grand. They were real people, and she wouldn’t have them changed a whit in any way. But would those Thorpes ever recognize that? With no great fortune behind them, and no painted ancestors, could they understand how people could be noblemen and—women without possessions?

And how would some of their opinions and standards harmonize? Would they have any thoughts in common? Politically, socially, religiously, intellectually? Even morally? Their standards were all so very different.

And how about herself? Was she going to be able to fit in with the Thorpes? But that was another question. She could think that through afterward. She had first to ferret out the truth about that burden on her heart.

Had it really been that Tilford’s words and tone, and the very glint in his eye, had seemed to expect that of course after they were married she would be utterly separated from her dear family? That their interests and concerns and affairs would be no more hers? That she would be henceforth apart from them so utterly that she was practically leaving all she loved behind her, and coming to him and his family and his interests? As if he had bought her body and soul!

That was it! That completely desolating thought!

Not once had it entered her head that she would be cut off from her family and her home after she was married.

Of course, she was expecting to live in a home of her own, she and Tilford, and she had up to this time looked upon it as a delightful adventure, something like playing house when she was a child, only on a larger scale. She had looked upon Tilford as the gilded god who was going to make this lovely play possible. But not once before had it entered her head that the dear people and places and things would be cut out of her life forever after. In her family, marriage meant that all concerned only acquired more dear relatives and wider realms of things and places to love. They did not give up what they already had.

Did Tilford feel that way, that he wanted to cut her off from her family? That he had no interest in them for themselves? She hadn’t thought about it before, but now she recalled that he had seldom seemed to care to linger in her house and talk to her father and mother or be brightly interested in her sisters and brothers. He had always some excuse to call late for her and leave at once.

Now she recalled also that her father had asked some puzzled questions now and then about the Thorpes, had tried to be friendly in the few minutes Tilford allowed him. Was it her fault, too, that she and Tilford had had so many engagements that there hadn’t seemed to be time for her parents and family to get really acquainted with her fiancé?

She had taken it all so for granted. She had thought all those matters would settle themselves. And now that horrid cold feeling at the bottom of her heart, in the memory of Tilford’s look last night! That feeling that she was about to leave everything that had been dear.

That wasn’t as it should be, was it? All girls didn’t feel that way, did they? They were in a sense leaving home, but they were going to be with the man they had chosen for life. Did she love Tilford enough to make up for leaving everyone and everything?

It suddenly became clear to her that she hadn’t ever faced that question. She had just gone on through the brief weeks since he had asked her to marry him, in a daze of wonder that one so rich and influential and handsome and sought after had chosen her. It had seemed almost too good a fortune to be true, and his way had carried everything before it.

Rides in his gorgeous car, admiration and flattery, social affairs that had not been in her sphere before, the wonder and envy of all her old friends. And then Tilford’s eagerness to bring everything to a close, to rush her through functions and ceremonies, prepare her for requirements that had not been before in her scheme of things, and plan for a wedding far beyond her highest ambitions. There hadn’t been time to think. Had there been something missing, something not quite in accordance with her dreams? Something tender and shy and precious, almost too precious to dare expect? Words? Looks? The first touch of hands, the first reverent touch of lips?

Tilford’s way had not been like that. He carried everything with a high hand, stated what he wanted, and expected her to concede. His kisses had been almost formal, like taking a bite of fruit he had just purchased. She had tried to ignore a vague disappointment. There had been no dreamed-of thrill of joy. Was that all that love meant? Perhaps there was no such thing as romance in this age of the world. Somehow, in spite of Tilford’s haste to marry her, there was a coldness, a matter-of-factness about him that left no room for the ecstasy that she had always expected to feel if she ever fell in love.

Was she in love? Perhaps she was only taking love for granted and it wasn’t love at all.

Suddenly she sprang up sharply.

“Oh, snap out of it!” she said angrily aloud to herself.

What were all these foolish thoughts, anyway, that she was allowing to wander through her mind? It was too late to consider such questions, even if there were any truth in them, which of course there wasn’t. She was engaged to Tilford Thorpe and wearing the most gorgeous diamond on her engagement finger that any girl in their town ever owned. And downstairs in the library there were neat white boxes of already addressed wedding invitations, awaiting only their stamps before they were taken to the post office. Perhaps her sister Gwyneth was even now putting on hundreds of stamps, and she ought to hurry down and help.

And over across the hall in the guest room closet there were many lovely garments hanging that she would never have thought she could afford if she were not marrying Tilford Thorpe. Also, down on her mother’s desk was a thick envelope containing estimates from the expensive caterer that Tilford had said was the only caterer in town who was fitted to handle an affair like their wedding supper in a satisfactory way. She had gasped when she caught a glimpse of the figures that were written on those heavy, expensive sheets. She had cringed as her brother Merrick leaned over her shoulder and read them aloud, fairly shouted them in an indignant tone so that the whole family could not help but hear. She recalled now with a sharp breath of pain the look of almost despair in her mother’s eyes as she listened. She ought to get down as quick as possible and straighten that out. Surely they could plan some way that would not cost so much! Poor Father! All of this was going to be so hard on him. She hoped that when she was married she would be able to lift the financial burden from his shoulders a little.

But all these things going on, the whole machinery set in relentless order for her wedding, and she daring to spend an idle thought on whether this was really romance or not!

Those invitations had to be mailed tomorrow, the exact number of days before the wedding that fashion decreed there should be, though the heavens should fall. It was much too late to alter anything, even if she found out that she was not in love with her bridegroom. Even if she found out it was all a terrible mistake, she could not turn back now. Nothing short of a miracle could undo those inexorable plans. There was no time now to check things over; it was too late for that.

Well, forget it! She had enough to occupy her mind without letting it bring up questions like that, that ought to have been settled beyond a question long ago. But when? It had all been so sudden! If she had made a mistake, she would doubtless have plenty of time to regret it.

But of course this was all nonsense. Everything was all right. She was making a brilliant marriage, and everybody thought so. Simply everybody. Even her mother hadn’t demurred. Even her father had only said, “Are you perfectly sure he is what you want, little girl?” And then he had given her his blessing. Although as she thought of it now, it seemed as if it had been almost a sad-eyed blessing.

Oh, what gloomy thoughts! And she had been so carefree and happy before last night! It was just the effect of that awful family party with all the eulogies and injunctions that had depressed her. She simply must snap out of it.

She arose and began to dress rapidly, dashing cold water on her face, putting on a bright little rose-colored print dress that she knew was becoming. Likely Tilford would telephone her after lunch to go out for a few holes of golf, but she must be firm about it. She must stay at home and get those invitations stamped and do a lot of other things that she had put off from day to day.

She began to hum a jaunty little tune, just to keep up the illusion that she had no misgivings, and she gave a final pat to her pretty hair, trying to make her eyes sparkle as she gave herself a brief glance in the mirror. Yes, she was all right, and everything was going to be lovely of course. She would do wonderful things for Mother and Dad and the others when she was a married woman, with time and plenty of money to spend! That nonsense of being separated from them all was a ghost of the nighttime. Tilford had no such idea as that. Tilford was a splendid, dependable young man. He would be a good son-in-law and would always be wanting to make her happy. And after all, what was romance? Just a figment of a silly girl’s imagining. When one grew up, one got to be sane and sensible and didn’t yearn to be a Cinderella. After all, wasn’t she marrying fortune, and wasn’t she going to Europe for her honeymoon?

Maris had finished her dressing and had almost regained her ecstasy of yesterday over her happy lot in life when another memory of last night that she had almost forgotten suddenly came to the surface and cast a sinister shadow in her path. The wedding dress! How could she have forgotten so important a matter! And now what was she to do about it?

She dropped down in a chair by the door and stared at the wall with troubled eyes.

Her mother had wanted white organdy for her from the first. She had thought it so suitable for a girl with a quiet background and no great fortune.

“I know you are going to be a grand lady, dear,” she had said wistfully, “but it seems so much better taste for you to dress simply and not try to appear that you are one before you really are.”

And Maris had agreed quite happily. She had always liked white organdy herself.

So her mother had made the dress most exquisitely, for she could do wonderful work with her needle. And the beautiful Irish lace, which had been in the family for years, had seemed just perfect, as if it were made for the simple dress pattern they had selected. The dress was almost finished and even now was hanging under a white shroud from a long hook on the inside of the guest room closet door. Maris had taken a parting look at it last night before she went out with Tilford, noting with proudly happy eyes the exquisite finish, so professional, so perfect! No Paris import could possibly outshine this charming dress! And it was all done except for a few stitches! Just a few more inches of lace to appliqué and it would be done! Dear Mother! How she had worked over it. Sometimes when she must have been very tired. That last glimpse of her wedding gown had sent Maris on her way starry-eyed to the family gathering.

And then, one of the first things that happened after she got there was that Mrs. Thorpe took her aside, before she had fairly got her wrap laid on the bed, and asked rather imperiously, “And now, my dear, about your wedding gown. I was going to speak to you before, but I haven’t really had the opportunity. What have you planned? Because I have a suggestion.”

The color flew into Maris’s cheeks, and she held her head proudly, “with the Mayberry tilt” as mischievous young Gwyneth would have said.

“My wedding dress is all ready, thank you. It was the first thing I planned.” She said it very quietly but firmly. Her future mother-in-law eyed her thoughtfully.

“Well, you are forehanded,” said Mrs. Thorpe pleasantly. “Most girls leave that until near the end. But, my dear, I’m wondering if you quite appreciate what a formal gown would be required for this wedding. Of course, whatever you pick out would be charming, but it could easily be used for some less formal affair. You see, I’ve found just the right garment for you, at a very exclusive little shop where I frequently deal, and I’m quite sure you’ll like it. It is perfect for the occasion, and one that you would always be proud to remember having worn on the greatest occasion of your life. Of course, it was a bit expensive, and so I secured a special price on it. If you feel it is still too high, I shall be glad to pay the extra expense, for I do feel that for the honor of the family you should have it.”

Maris’s color had drained away at this, and her eyes had become a deeper blue as she lifted her chin a bit haughtily. She could imagine the steel in her father’s eyes if he should hear of this offer to help pay for his daughter’s wedding dress. She could imagine the hurt in her mother’s eyes at the interference.

“I think you will be pleased with my dress,” she said a bit haughtily.

“Perhaps,” said the older woman, “but nevertheless, I would like you to see this dress of which I speak. I’m sure after you once see it, nothing else will seem the proper thing.”

“Then I wouldn’t want to see it,” laughed Maris with a tinge of asperity beneath the laughter.

“Oh, now, my dear, you certainly aren’t as narrow as that! But I must insist that you see it. I really feel very strongly about the matter, and of course I’ll be glad to finance it.”

Maris drew the Mayberry dignity about her.

“My father would not permit that of course,” she said quietly.

“Well, of course, if he feels that way. But I didn’t like to make suggestions without offering to pay for them. Then you’ll see it tomorrow, won’t you, Maris? I told the woman to hold it, that you would likely be in sometime in the morning. Of course, if you have to delay till afternoon, just phone her and say when you will be there. Here’s the address, and the phone number.”

She handed Maris the card.

Maris took it reluctantly, looked at it for a minute, struggled with her annoyance, and lifted a face on which she tried to hold a winning smile.

“I could look at it,” she said pleasantly, “but it really wouldn’t be worthwhile for the woman to take the time to show it to me, because I simply couldn’t do anything about it. I have a wedding dress, and I like it very much.”

“But you will see it because I ask you to,” said the older woman with an underlying tone of authority in her voice. “I have spoken to Tilford about it, and he feels that you should see it. I ask it as a special favor.”

More family arrivals just then prevented further talk and left Maris bending the little troublesome card back and forth in her fingers. She finally slipped the card into her small evening bag, and the thought of it was submerged in the dull monotony of the evening. But now it rose with all the imperiousness of the Thorpe family and seemed as binding upon her as if she had signed a contract to go and look at that dress. Tilford was in on it, too. Really, that wasn’t fair! The bridegroom was not supposed to know anything about the bridal gown till he saw her in it for the first time as she came up the aisle. But perhaps Tilford’s mother didn’t realize that.

Well, what should she do? Just forget it? Could she get by? She had a feeling that perhaps it might be hard to explain to Tilford why she had ignored his mother’s request. And over and above all she had a little shivery feeling that this matter of marriage was assuming a grave and sinister appearance. Those words—formal affair—that Mrs. Thorpe had used last night had made it seem that it wasn’t just a matter between herself and Tilford, but as if she were about to marry the whole Thorpe clan and come under their authority. Was that so?

And what should she do? She didn’t want to make a useless fuss about what might after all prove to be a trifling matter. Perhaps she had better go and look at the dress and say she had seen it but she still felt that her own would be more suitable. And yet, even to compromise so much seemed almost disloyal to the mother who had worked so hard and wrought such love into every stitch of that exquisite fairy dress.

She had been so sure until last night that all the Thorpes would admire and praise it. And now she had a feeling that they would look on it with scorn. And perhaps if she went to look at this other sophisticated dress, it might make her dissatisfied with her own lovely dress. Oh, how she hated the thought of all this interference.

Well, what should she do? Was it thinkable that she should tell her mother and that they should go down and look at that dress? Was it at all possible that the lovely organdy was not formal and stately enough for this wedding that the Thorpes seemed to think was their wedding and not hers?

Suddenly she sprang to her feet, opened the door, and listened a minute. She could hear a distant sound of dishes in the kitchen. A pang of conscience shot through her. Mother was washing dishes, and she ought to be downstairs helping. By this time, of course, Gwyneth should have gone to school. And Mother had dismissed the maid yesterday! She had pretended it was because Sally was inefficient, but Maris knew in her heart that her mother was trying to save money, just now when this wedding was going to be such an expense! And here she was lingering upstairs considering whether she wouldn’t add more expense by buying another wedding dress at the most exclusive shop in the city! What utter nonsense! What ingratitude! Of course her lovely organdy was the right thing. It was as beautiful as a dream, and nobody, not even Mrs. Thorpe, could say it wasn’t. And anyway, Tilford would have to take her as she was. If he didn’t like her in her own wedding dress, he needn’t marry her!

With her head held high, she tiptoed across the hall to lift the white cheesecloth covering and reassure herself by another glimpse of the dress that had seemed so wonderful to her just last night.

And there hung the dress in all its white cloudiness. Nothing could have been lovelier! Formal? Yes, its very simplicity gave it an air of distinction! There was something about it that even formality might not question.

Then suddenly she saw that the lace, which had been hanging from the sleeve last night, hung no longer. It was all delicately in place with tiny invisible stitches, exquisite and perfect. It was done!

Then Mother must have sat up until all hours last night finishing it! For she knew by having watched the rest of the lace put on what a time it took, and what infinite care her mother used. It was all wrought together so perfectly that the sewing was only a part of the artistry.

Sudden tears sprang to her eyes! Dear Mother!

Then it had been a crack of light beneath the sewing room door that she had thought she saw last night down the hall as she came softly up the stairs not to disturb anybody! When she looked again, it was gone and she had thought it imagination. But Mother must have heard her and turned the light off quickly so that she wouldn’t know what she was doing and then turned it on again when she was sure her child was asleep. Dear Mother! Precious wedding dress! Not for any new formal relatives would she hurt her mother now, by even suggesting that they look at that other formal attire that had been urged upon her!

But there would be Tilford. If he should speak of it, how would she answer? Well, perhaps she could run down sometime this morning and just look at the dress and then tell him she liked her own better.

Suddenly, as she stood at the head of the stairs trying to think it out, there came a frightened cry. Gwyneth from the distant kitchen suddenly flung the door open.

“Maris! Maris! Come quick! Something’s happened to Mother!”

Chapter 2

As Maris flew down the stairs on panic-stricken feet, the telephone set up a wild ringing, and on top of that the doorbell shrilled out through the house, but Maris sped on to the kitchen where her mother would be. And there on the floor beside the sink, with the dish towel still in her grasp and her soft brown hair that was graying at the temples fallen down around her shoulders, lay her mother. Her face was still and white, and Maris’s frightened eyes could see no sign of breathing as she stooped down with a low cry. “Oh, Mother! Mother! Mother! You dear little mother!”

“Yes, very dear to you!” said the sarcastic voice of her brother Merrick as he came angrily into the room. “What’s the matter here?”

He caught a glimpse of his mother prone upon the floor and his young face hardened.

“If anything’s the matter with Mother, you’ve yourself to thank for it. That doggone fool wedding is at the bottom of it all. I’ve seen it killing her day by day! Get out of the way and let me lift her up! Get some water, can’t you? Send for the doctor! Somebody answer that telephone and tell ’em to shut up and get out!”

He gathered up his mother in his strong young arms. Such a frail little limp white mother with the dish towel still in her hand!

He strode toward the couch in the dining room.

“Gwyn, can’t you stop that telephone! It’s fierce! Maris, can’t you bring some water? Isn’t there any aromatic ammonia around?”

Merrick was standing over his mother, frantically peering down at her white, silent face.

A young man who had come in with Merrick and had up to this time stood in the doorway silently, answered the appeal in his friend’s eyes and came over to the couch. He stooped over, listening, and laid his hand on the wrist.

Merrick looked at him with fear in his eyes.

“Is she—gone?” he murmured hoarsely.

“No, I think not,” said the other. “Let’s have that ammonia. Dip that towel in some water and wet her face.”

Maris, with white face and frightened eyes, brought the bottle and then got a wet cloth and began to bathe her mother’s face. She knelt down beside the couch and found she was trembling so that her knees would hardly support her.

The telephone had ceased, and presently Gwyneth came to her brother.

“It’s Tilford,” she said. “He said he’s got to speak to Maris.”

“Well, he can’t speak to Maris now. I’ll tell His Highness where to get off!” And Merrick strode out in the hall to the telephone.

If Maris heard at all, she was too frightened to take it in. She knelt there tenderly bathing her mother’s still white face and trying to stop the trembling in her limbs, trying to keep her lips from quivering.

She was aware that somebody else, an outsider, was kneeling beside her listening for a heartbeat, feeling for a slender, evasive pulse in her mother’s frail wrist, but she did not turn her head to look at him. It didn’t occur to her to wonder who he was or if she knew him. She was intent upon her mother’s face. Was it too late? Was she gone from them forever? Would she never be able to tell her how much she loved her? How sorry and ashamed she was that she had let her do so many hard things alone, while she had gone on her blithe way having a good time and never noticing how hard she was making it for her precious mother.

She thought of many things while she knelt there so quietly bathing that white face, helping the man beside her to lift the head of the sick woman and hold a glass of water to her lips. She was examining herself, seeing herself as she had never seen herself before in all her happy, carefree days.

Maris did not hear Merrick at the telephone, though he was shouting angrily:

“Well, you can’t see my sister. She’s busy. Our mother has been taken very ill. We aren’t sure but she’s dying. Get off this wire. I want to telephone for the doctor. Get off quick, I say!” Bang! Merrick hung up.

Then in a second he lifted the receiver again.

“Merrick, you must be crazy to speak to me this way. Do you realize what you are doing?” babbled forth the indignant voice of his future brother-in-law. “Tell Maris to come here at once. I must speak to her right away. I won’t keep her but a moment, but I must tell her something right away!”

“Will you get out of my way?” yelled Merrick. “If my mother dies for want of a doctor, we’ll have you arrested for murder. Get off, I tell you! Thunder, have I got to go next door to get a message through to the doctor? Operator! Operator!”

“But, Merrick, listen to me—”

“Oh, go to thunder!” roared Merrick. “No, I won’t listen to you. I’ll go and use the neighbors’ phone, and you can keep right on talking to yourself—” And Merrick banged the receiver down on the table and left Tilford protesting in dignified and indignant tones. But Merrick had gone next door to telephone, and presently Tilford took it in that nobody was listening to him. A vast silence seemed to have dropped down upon the wire, and nobody was getting the benefit of his high-sounding words. Tilford was a handsome man and usually depended a good deal on the effect of his personal appearance when he was talking, but he found himself at a great disadvantage just now, for his physical beauty had no effect whatever on the telephone wires. There didn’t seem to be even an operator around to hear him. So at last he hung up in disgust. Somebody should suffer for this! Merrick, of course, was the greatest offender, but if Merrick were not available, his sister should certainly take it. Perhaps it would be as well for him to go right around to the house now and see Maris personally, make her understand what an unforgivable thing her brother had done. He never had liked that fellow anyway. When he and Maris were married, he would forbid Merrick from coming to the house! One didn’t have to marry all one’s wife’s relatives of course. He would make her understand that thoroughly when the time came.

So Tilford Thorpe started on his way to see Maris.

Maris, on her knees beside the dining room couch, was holding a cloth wet in aromatic ammonia in front of her mother’s face and crying in her heart, Oh, God. Don’t let her die! Oh, God, please don’t let my mother die! and was coming out rapidly from the coma of merriment into which the orgy of festivities connected with her engagement had plunged her.

As the agonized minutes passed and still that white face did not change—save for a quick catching of breath, faintly, so faintly that they weren’t quite sure it had been a breath—it seemed as if the atmosphere rapidly became clear of a lot of things that had filled it for Maris in the past weeks. True values of things and people began to adjust themselves to her sharply awakened mind. Such things as special hours for wedding invitations to be mailed and the importance of pleasing Tilford’s relatives sank into insignificance. Years of tender care and sacrifice and precious love stood out in clear relief and importance. Strange sharp memories came and stood around like witnesses against her. The time when she had cut the vein in her wrist with the bread knife and Mother had held it together until the doctor got there. The time when the bull had dashed into the garden from a herd that was going by on the street and Mother had sheltered her behind her own body. That was when she was only two and a half years old, yet she remembered how safe she had felt. The time when she had the whooping cough and almost died, with an unbelievable temperature, and Mother had stayed up for two whole nights and days, most of the time on her knees bathing the hot little body under a blanket, trying to bring down the temperature. The time when there had had to be a blood transfusion and Mother had offered her own. Such a precious mother who had guarded and served them all. Her deeds stood crowding about the couch hand in hand, silent witnesses of the past. And last of all her lovely wedding dress seemed to her troubled mind to come floating down the stairs and stand with the rest about the couch where the little gray-faced mother lay.

“Oh, Mother, Mother!” Maris suddenly cried, softly, and her hand paused with the wet cloth she was holding, and her head suddenly went down on her mother’s breast for an instant of despair. Then up again instantly, just as strong hands lifted her, and Merrick’s voice, grown suddenly tender and more worried, said, “Take her in the other room. I’ll look out for Mother.”

That roused her. She straightened up.

“No! No! I’m all right!” she whispered. “I must stay here!”

“There’s the doctor!” announced Gwyneth, hurrying to open the door. And then they all made way for the doctor, and Maris felt those strong arms lifting her again and leading her to a chair.

She did not look up to see who it was. Her eyes were upon her mother’s face there on the couch.

Someone brought her a glass of water, and she drank it and then went back to stand at the head of the couch and watched the doctor’s face.

The strange young man was sent on an errand for the doctor, and Merrick went to telephone his father. Maris stayed to wait on the doctor and answer his questions, though she found it was fourteen-year-old Gwyneth who did most of the answering.

“I wasn’t here,” was all Maris could say in answer to some question about whether her mother had felt bad the day before and what she had been doing.

“She had an awful headache yesterday,” said Gwyneth sadly. “I guess she worked too hard. She would do so many things. I tried to help her, but she sent me to do my homework and said she could do it all herself. But once I saw her put her hand over her heart, and I asked her what was the matter, and she said, ‘Oh, just a sharp pain’…”

“Had she been having pains in her heart?”

“She never complained,” said Maris sadly. “I’m afraid we were all so busy with our own affairs that we didn’t notice.”

“She sewed a lot last night,” volunteered Gwyneth. “She told me this morning she’d got it all done, what she was working on.”

Tears sprang to Maris’s eyes, and she turned away to hide them and then turned back again as she heard her mother give a soft little breath of a sigh. Oh, was she coming back to them, or was she gone? She watched the grave face of the doctor anxiously, but he worked on quietly and gave no sign. Only asked for water and a spoon and handed the glass back to Maris.

A car drew up at the door. The young man came back and brought whatever it was that he had been sent for, but Maris took no notice of him. Some friend of Merrick’s, she thought. Then a few minutes later a nurse arrived, and Maris caught her breath in hope and fear. But there was no time to ask questions. She must go upstairs and get the bed ready for the patient to be moved. There were sheets to hunt out, the good sheets. Where were the good sheets? Every one she unfolded seemed to be torn or badly frayed at the hems. Oh, the house was in perfect order for a wedding but not for an illness. And they had not been expecting to have any of the wedding party stay overnight with them, for they all lived in the town.

“There aren’t any good sheets left, Maris,” whispered Gwyneth. “Mother had me help her gather up the laundry for the man this morning, and we put the last good ones in the bag. She said she must stitch up some of the torn ones till the laundry got back.”

Suddenly Maris took it in. Mother and Father had been scrimping on everything so there might be more to pay her wedding bills. There were beautiful garments hanging in her closet, costly garments, for her parents were sending her proudly away from their care; and her generous hope chest was filled to overflowing with linen and percale sheets and pillowcases, smooth as silk and fine of quality; and towels in abundance, rich and sumptuous as any bride might desire. But the mother of the bride must be put to bed in torn sheets!

Suddenly Maris’s face went white and her lips set in a thin line of determination. She put back the torn sheets she had been unfolding hopelessly and marched into her own room to her hope chest. She delved deep and brought out a wealth of lovely smooth sheets and pillow covers and brought them into her mother’s room where Gwyneth was taking off the worn sheets that had been on the bed.

Gwyneth looked at her in startled dismay.

“But, Maris, those are your wedding things! You mustn’t use those!”

“Why not?” said Maris grimly. “They’re mine, aren’t they? Mother bought them for me, didn’t she? I have a right to use them the way I want to, don’t I?”

“Yes, but Mother wouldn’t want you to use them up now. Not on her bed.”

“I’m sure she would,” said Maris, “if she knew how I feel about it. I’d rather use these now on Mother’s bed, Gwynnie, than on any grandest occasion that could ever come into my life. Wouldn’t you feel that way, Gwyn, if they were yours?”

“Oh, yes, I would,” said Gwyneth, “but then, I wouldn’t have the Thorpes to think about.”

She said it so quaintly and so gravely that Maris would have broken down and laughed if she hadn’t felt too frightened and too sad to laugh. But somehow it opened her eyes to the way her young sister felt about her future relatives.

And just then the doorbell pealed through the house.

“We must muffle that bell,” said Maris. “The doctor said there mustn’t be any noise. Mother startles every time she hears a sharp sound.”

“I’ll go,” said Gwyneth.

“No, you stay here and help me. Tuck the sheets in over that side. The doctor wants to get Mother in bed as soon as possible. They are going to bring her right up. Someone will go to the door, Merrick or that young man he brought in with him. He’s been very kind.”

“Young man!” said Gwyneth. “Didn’t you know who that was? That’s Lane Maitland, the boy that used to live next door to us five years ago. Don’t you remember him?”

“Lane Maitland? Why, yes, I remember him. But I didn’t know him. I guess I didn’t even look at him. Gwyn, you run down and tell them we’re ready. I’ll wait here and put out some more towels. Maybe they’ll need me to help get Mother settled.”

Gwyneth started, but as she passed the window she exclaimed, “Oh, Maris! That must have been Tilford that rang the bell! There’s his car out there now.”

Maris looked up in dismay.

“Well, I can’t see him now. You run down and tell him what’s happened. Quick! Before Merrick gets there! Merrick hasn’t any sense.”

Gwyneth vanished, and Maris turned back the covers carefully. She could hear that they were bringing her mother up the stairs. The nurse was ahead, eyeing the arrangements with a quick keen glance. Maris had no more time to think of Tilford now. But surely he would understand.

Then there was so much to be done that Maris forgot Tilford entirely. She helped the nurse to undress her mother. There were things to be hunted for. A nightgown and robe. Mother just didn’t seem to have anything. All her garments were worn. Maris was ashamed to hand them out. She dashed into her own room, opened the drawer where her own pretty lingerie was waiting to be packed for her trip abroad, and selected a pretty gown and a little pink robe with sprigs of embroidery scattered over it. The tears blinded her eyes as she hurried back to the nurse.

“Oh, haven’t you something plainer? Something old and worn?” said the nurse. “Keep these till she is able to sit up.”

Maris felt as if her eager gift had been rejected, but she hurried away and hunted again among her mother’s things.

“That will do,” said the nurse, reaching for an old faded gown with a tear halfway up the back. “I shall want to cut it up the back anyway. It’s easier to put it on without disturbing her.”

Dear Mother, so inert, lying there limp, while others arrayed her in her old garments. Mother who never let anyone do anything for her and was always waiting on others! Oh, if she had only seen all of this before. If Mother didn’t get well, would she ever be able to forgive herself and go on with life?

“Can you get me some ice?” asked the doctor crisply, breaking in on her frantic thoughts.

Maris dashed downstairs for the ice and almost knocked over Tilford, who was standing at the foot of the stairs, his handsome face snarled into an ugly frown.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Maris?” he said vexedly, reaching out his arms to prevent a collision. “You seem to be all wrought up. Can’t you have a little self-control? And why have you had to keep me waiting so long when you know how busy I am this morning? I’ve been waiting here exactly fifteen minutes!” He glanced at his watch to be accurate. He was always accurate about details. “I sent you word that I was in a great hurry and would keep you only a moment, and yet you didn’t come. I can’t understand it.”

He gave her a severe look as if she were a naughty child, and Maris burst into tears. Her lips quivered, but she controlled herself at once.

“Oh, hush, please,” she said in a whisper. “We mustn’t talk here. Mother is very sick indeed. The doctor said there must be absolute quiet. Come into the kitchen with me. I can’t stop even a minute. The doctor wants some ice.”

“Well, why doesn’t he send the nurse after it? I saw a nurse go upstairs. Does he expect to make a packhorse out of you?”