Maris

  She tried to speak, but she found herself propelled at a breathless pace down the stairs, held by that viselike grip and actually a man's handkerchief stuffed in her mouth as any common gangster might have done. She had to clutch the stair rail with her own free hand lest she would fall headlong, but as soon as she arrived at the foot of the stairs and her feet felt solid floor beneath them, she wrenched the handkerchief angrily out of mouth and flung it on the floor.

  "Really!" she puffed. "What do you think you are doing, Dr. MacPherson?"

  "I think I am getting you out of this house as rapidly as I know how!" said the eminent physician sternly. "Did you know what you were doing? Did you know you were talking to a woman at death's door, and you are very likely to have killed her? We've worked all night to keep her alive, and you come here and harangue her like that! Get out of this house as fast as you can, and don't you dare come here again until the family is able to look after themselves."

  He opened the screen door and almost flung her--if one could be said to fling anything as substantial as Mrs. Thorpe--from the house.

  "I guess you don't know who I am!" blustered Mrs. Thorpe breathlessly, as she drew herself up and tried to look dignified.

  "I don't know who you are, and I don't want to know. I know you're a fool and a criminal. That's enough for me!"

  "I am Mrs. Henry Watterson Thorpe of Heathcote on the Hill."

  "I don't care a copper who you are! Get out quick!"

  "You are most insulting! I shall certainly have you arrested!"

  "If that woman upstairs dies, I shall have you indicted for murder! Now scram!" said the doctor.

  Mrs. Thorpe scrammed with as much dignity as she could muster and got into her car while her chauffeur held open the door for her and pretended not to see how upset she was. When they started on their way toward home, Mrs. Henry Watterson Thorpe on the Hill found that she was weeping. She hadn't been so shaken since she thought once during the Depression that Henry had lost all his money. Somehow her ego was shaken. She was going home in disgrace, having failed in her mission. Like a warlord who instead of wearing a wreath of laurel in token of his victory is brought home wounded, lying on his shield.

  But back in the old Mayberry house they were giving little heed to how the intruder was feeling. They were doing all in their power to avert calamity.

  They were all there. Maris, her eyes wide with horror and even her lips drained of every particle of color; Merrick, just wakened from a bit of a morning nap he had snatched, trying to understand what had happened; even the father in a hastily donned dressing gown, his hand griping the door frame, his lips trembling as he tottered over to the bed where his wife lay looking wildly from him to the nurse. For even though the doctor had been most miraculously quiet in his treatment of the intruder, the whole household was roused. Gwyneth came rushing upstairs, with Sally just behind her trying to hush her, and from the farthest end of the back hall, where the playroom door had swung ajar, came Lexie's frightened wail: "Maris, vat's the matter? I want my muvver!"

  It was incredible how soon the doctor got back into the house and upstairs, after having expressed himself to the unwelcome visitor. And with what patience and tenderness he worked! Maris, as she watched him, turned away feeling that if any human doctor could save her mother, he would.

  He shut them all out of the room but the nurse and gave his orders in quick, low tones.

  The mother was still wide-eyed and apparently conscious for the first time of all that was going on about her, suffering acutely, too, for her hand would go to her heart feebly, and she would moan and cry out sharply.

  "There, there, sister! That was just a bad dream you had. Forget it! You're all right. We're going to have you all right in a little while."

  The troubled eyes searched his face.

  "That woman--?" she faltered.

  "She's gone!"

  "Why--did--she--come?"

  "Oh, she just made a mistake and got the wrong house. Don't think any more about her. Nurse, bring me those drops."

  "Maris--?" the tired lips formed.

  "Yes, Maris is right here," said the doctor, and at a sign Maris came in and stood by her mother.

  "Show her how you can smile this morning," ordered the doctor as he carefully measured out the drops. "You're happy, aren't you, Maris?"

  "Oh, yes, Mother, I'm happy. You're--looking----so much--better!" The girl's voice faltered. She was wondering if she was saying the right thing, struggling with the tears that wanted to flow.

  "Father--?" The word was so weak it could hardly be heard.

  "Oh, he's right here, too!" said the doctor breezily. "It's early though, Mrs. Mayberry. He isn't exactly dressed yet, but we don't mind. Now, you drink this, and then take a little nap and you'll be all right."

  The troubled eyes rested on Mr. Mayberry as he came in from across the hall where he had stood grayly by the door listening. He tried to smile as if there was nothing the matter. He took his wife's hand in his tenderly, and almost the flitting shadow of a smile came to her lips. Then the terror went out of her eyes, and she swallowed the medicine the doctor held and sighed gently like a tired child.

  "The--children--?" The words were scarcely audible.

  "Are here and happy as clams, but you've had enough excitement for one morning. The children will come in later."

  The doctor's voice was very low and gentle but had the quality of authority that his patients always recognized. Mrs. Mayberry had another fleeting ghost of a smile in her eyes as she closed them. Suddenly Maris felt as if her mother was dying and was trying to bid them all good-bye. Oh, was that it? She turned her head away to hide the quick tears that came. Oh, if Mother died, it would be herself who had killed her! Her wedding, just as Merrick had said! How could she ever go on living knowing that all her life?

  "Now, all of you go away a little while, for Mother wants to sleep," said the doctor in that cheerful tone of his that seemed to quell all fears and drive away fantastic shadows as if they were but smoke. "Mother's going to feel much better when she wakes up. Oh, much, much better!"

  He waved them all out of the room, paused to give a direction to the nurse, then came out to them where they were herded together, a frightened little group, around their father. Maris with slow tears running down her cheeks of which she was not aware.

  "Well," said the doctor, coming up to them with his grave, tender smile, "that was a bolt out of a clear sky! But I think she has a chance even yet. She reacted better than I could have hoped. Who was that old horned toad, anyway, and how did she happen to barge in here?"

  He looked from the one to the other of them, and suddenly Maris's white face flushed crimson, and then the color receded and left her whiter than before. It seemed almost as if she were swaying and about to fall.

  "Oh, I see," said the doctor, "one of those things! Well, we won't say any more about it. But I certainly would like to get her up a tree and keep her there for a while. I'd like to tell her a few more things that I didn't have time for at the moment."

  The nurse came softly out of the room and caught the last few words. The semblance of a grin adorned her plain features for an instant.

  "If you ask me," she said grimly, "I should say you said plenty. The last glimpse I had of her as I passed the window showed her withering like Jonah's gourd."

  "I'm not aware that I asked you, Nurse," said the doctor with a twinkle. "Now, Nurse, we want to keep that pulse going steadily without a lost beat. See what you can do, and telephone me at the slightest change. We're running no risks. Scatter, folks, and get some rest and some food. Wash your faces and comb your hair. We aren't conquered yet. We may have to get another nurse for a night or two to relieve Miss Bonner till she takes a nap or two, but aside from that I believe we're going to win."

  "You'll get no night nurse for me," said the nurse irately. "I'm good for another couple nights if need be, and I want no other nurse messing in on my case, not when I've come this far."


  "All right with me!" said the doctor with satisfaction. "I'd rather have you exclusively than any other two nurses I know. Now! Where's that little measles girl? How is she getting on?"

  Maris led the way, brushing off the tears and trying to get a cheerful face before her little sister saw her. She paused in the hall with her hand on the doorknob.

  "Doctor," she breathed softly, "please tell me! If--my mother dies----will you think--it was that woman's coming?"

  The doctor looked her straight in the eye.

  "Well, of course, I wouldn't recommend performances like that as a general rule in treating a patient with a heart condition like your mother's, but at the same time, I'm relying on your mother's rare sense of humor, Miss Maris. I think that was perhaps the best comedy ever put on in a sickroom. It was so well enunciated that I heard every word of it as I was coming up the walk from my car. I didn't miss a thing. I thought at first it was someone on the radio and the neighbors were indulging in an early morning broadcast. At the same time, of course, you understand that I should leave no stone unturned to prevent a recurrence of the performance. Have you an idea that it is likely to happen again?"

  Maris's eyes were darkly blue and inscrutable, and her lips trembled a little as she answered.

  "I shall certainly do everything in my power to prevent it. No, I don't think anyone would dare do a thing like that twice. Not after what you said to her. Thank you, Dr. MacPherson."

  Then they went into the room to see the little girl who was lying there crying softly into her pillow lest she would disturb her mother. The doctor called her "a brave boy" for being so thoughtful and made her giggle in the midst of her tears.

  She was a very miserable and uncomfortable little girl that morning, for the measles were beginning to come out in flocks and she didn't like them. But the doctor was pleased with the way they were doing.

  As he went out, he looked sympathetically at Maris.

  "You're having your hands full," he said, "but I'm not sure but it's just as well. You won't have so much time to worry about your mother. And you know it is going to be quite a time before she gets back to her former self. She'll need great care and rest, but I think she has a wonderful constitution, and there is good reason to hope she will get well. You can keep that in the back of your mind when you get discouraged. Of course, I'm not promising anything, but that's what I really hope for. I'll do the best I can, and then it is all in God's hands."

  A great relief flooded Maris's soul. She had been so sure that her mother was going that she scarcely dared believe even now that the doctor still had hope.

  Oh, God! she said in her heart. I thank You! I thank You!

  Then she turned to her duties with a little lighter heart.

  But when all was said, it was not an easy day that was before her. A little girl who was not used to discomfort and pain and not old enough to be philosophical about it, at least not for long periods at a time; who had to be entertained and kept from crying, both for her own physical good and also for her mother's. Maris's strength and ability were to be taxed to the utmost. But the problems of yesterday had taken a backseat. The wedding invitations and twin wedding dresses might still be lurking in the shadows of her bedroom this morning, but she had no time to go there herself, and so she need not consider them. How trifling and unimportant any of them seemed in the light of this new day with its anxieties and duties.

  Gwyneth came up to the door with a tray that Sally had sent. Orange juice for Lexie and a nice breakfast tray for Maris, who hadn't eaten a mouthful yet since she got up.

  Gwyneth's face was long and dreary.

  "Sister, what am I going to do about school?" she asked in a desolate whisper, with a fearsome glance toward the far door of her mother's room.

  "Oh, yes," said Maris cheerfully. "I've been thinking. You go to the telephone--perhaps you'd better wait till recess time, or noon, whichever you think best--and call up your teacher. Or perhaps the principal would be better; whoever has the say about you. Tell her that Mother is very sick and that your little sister has the measles. That you have had them and we do not think it likely you will get them again, but that you cannot be spared to go away from home at present as you are needed here to help. Ask if it is possible for you to have your lessons assigned each day, and you to take your examinations with the rest when you are able to return. If she doesn't seem willing, call me and I will talk to her."

  "But Maris, suppose I didn't understand something. Who would I ask?"

  "I'm quite sure I would be able to help you. Or you could telephone your teacher."

  Slowly, reluctantly, the little girl went down to her task. She didn't like the thought of asking, and she would have felt so much more important and on-her-own to have stayed with Erminie. There was a lot more freedom of one kind and another at Erminie's house than either Gwyneth's mother or Erminie's knew about.

  But a half hour later Gwyneth came back to Maris's door and announced happily that it was all fixed. The principal was to send her advance lessons each week, and she was to do her homework; and then when she went back, there would be tests, and all would be explained if she hadn't understood something. She seemed quite interested in apportioning her time for study and keeping up with her classmates. It was a kind of game, and she was satisfied. After all, there were only two more weeks to go.

  Maris was downstairs later in the morning hunting a certain pair of scissors she needed for cutting out endless strings of paper dollies who could dance about upon Lexie's bed and be blown away with a breath to make a laugh for the restless little invalid. The telephone rang.

  Maris started and looked troubled. This would likely be Tilford. There would be more discussion, and what could she say more than she had already said? Reluctantly she went to answer it. Would his mother have talked with him yet? If she had, he would be very angry of course. It hadn't occurred to her before that they would be aggrieved at what the doctor had said, but of course they would.

  But strangely, the whole thing did not seem her burden anymore. She was in a hard, trying place, and it might be days before she got out of it, but God was going to lead her out someday, and she did not have to depend upon herself to get out. She had asked God to help, and she believed He was going to do it. Anyway, she hadn't any strength or wisdom of her own for this complicated situation. It was in the strength of this trust that she went to the telephone.

  And then it wasn't Tilford at all. It was Lane Maitland. She almost laughed aloud with relief as she recognized his voice.

  "This is Broadcasting Station Number Two," he said solemnly, "reporting on Maitland Detention Camp. Twelve o'clock noon, daylight saving time. The entire force of cadets slept well through the night, save for an hour when they were called out to engage in combat with a bat who had stolen into the barracks. Nevertheless, they arose on time, made their beds, took a swim in the creek, ate a hearty breakfast, had devotions, went through setting up exercises. Then an hour of study personally conducted by the scoutmaster, played two sets of tennis, and now are about to indulge in a noonday repast. They will then pack a lunch and start on a hike to Conner's woods where they will hunt for wildflowers and lichens for tomorrow's natural science study, eat their lunch, and return to camp about sundown. Communication may be had with them by telephoning to Conner's, Severn--1188, who will at once advise the scoutmaster. In case cadets may be needed, they will return by bus, which passes Conner's every fifteen minutes. If these arrangements are not agreeable, kindly advise at once. Lane Maitland speaking."

  Maris gave a pleasant little giggle, and the heavy burden she had anticipated rolled away out of sight for the moment. It was like stooping to pick up a great iron weight and finding it only a bundle of feathers.

  "Delightful!" she said. "Won't that be grand for the boys! I know they will love it. I approve most heartily. I only hope you won't be worn out. I don't see how I can ever thank you for what you are doing."

  "I'm having the time of my life mysel
f. But how about you? Did you have a hard night?"

  "A busy one. Not so hard perhaps as it might have been. We were all up most of the night. Dad wasn't so well, and Lexie was restless, but we're all very thankful it was no worse. Mother seems to be resting all right just now."

  Her voice trailed off sadly, and the listener thought he discerned anxiety returning to it.

  "You are sure it's all right to take the boys away even as far as Conner's? I can keep them happy here at home if you prefer."

  "No, I think it's all right. The doctor seems to think Mother has a good chance, though of course he doesn't promise anything."

  There was a catch in her voice, and the young man was quick to understand.

  "Yes, I know," he said gently. "We've been praying, the boys and I," he added half shyly. "That helps!"

  "Oh, thank you!" said Maris fervently. "That does help."

  "Well, I won't keep you any longer now. I'll report again this evening."

  Maris turned from the telephone strangely comforted. What was there about that simple little conversation that had taken the tiredness away from her heart?

  What a blessing that Lane Maitland had come home just at this time.

  And then it suddenly came to her mind to wish vaguely that Tilford were something like Lane Maitland.

  How Tilford would have loved that!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As the day wore on toward sunset, Maris had need of all the comfort there was to be had. It was not that any fresh calamity had occurred; it was just that it was not easy to go on making endless strings of paper dollies and reading stories with eyes that were heavy for sleep and a voice that lagged from very weariness. To be patient hour after hour with the poor petulant baby who couldn't understand why she felt so hot and miserable, who wanted things until they came and then snarled at them.

  By this time, too, old friends and neighbors were getting to know that Mrs. Mayberry was very ill, and they kept coming to the door, and asking for Maris, or calling up on the telephone and demanding to speak to her. Even the sign of quarantine on the door did not deter them. And every time she was called to the telephone or the front door she went with a tremor lest it would be some of the Thorpes. And yet she would not let herself think about that possibility. She could not prepare to deal with them, because it would surely be the unexpected with which she would have to deal. So she fell into the habit unconsciously of letting her heart cry out for help to God as she went downstairs.