Maris (5 page)

Yours as ever,

Affectionately,

Tilford

 

Maris had just reached the end of the letter when she heard the nurse calling softly, insistently: "Miss Mayberry, could you come here a
minute quick
! I don't like the way your mother breathes, and I want to telephone the doctor at the hospital."

 

 

Lane Maitland, as he rode away with the doctor, who was going to drop him at a garage where he had left his own car for a slight repair, studied the doctor's grave face awhile before he spoke.

"Is Mrs. Mayberry going to get well, Dr. MacPherson?" he asked quietly.

The doctor gave him a keen glance.

"I'm not sure," he said thoughtfully. "If she pulls through the next day or two, she may pick up. But it depends on several things even then. How well do you know the Mayberrys? You used to live next door, didn't you?"

"Yes, five years ago before we went to the West Coast. I knew them pretty well. Maris was in my class in high school."

"Yes, I thought so. You and Maris used to play tennis over at the old court by the women's club, didn't you? I thought I remembered. Well, I suppose you've kept in touch with them from time to time, haven't you?"

"Well, not very closely," said Lane. "You know kids don't spend much time writing letters. But they were the first people I wanted to see when I got back. They were real people. Mrs. Mayberry was like a mother to me after my own mother died. She took care of me when I was sick once. I think a lot of her. I went around to the house with Merrick this morning, the first place I've been since I struck the town, just to see Mrs. Mayberry, and we found her lying on the floor in the kitchen. I haven't had a chance to ask any questions yet. I don't know whether she's been ill before, or whether this is a first attack or what."

"I guess it's what," said the doctor speculatively. "The whole trouble is the woman is worn out, I think. She's worked too hard and hasn't stopped to consider herself. To tell you the truth, when I came in I thought she was gone. There didn't seem to be any heartbeat at all. But she was coming up wonderfully when I left. Unless there's another setback, she may pull out this time without any serious harm. Then again, the least little thing might blow her out like a candle. I'm not just sure how far her heart is involved. She's been a wonderfully wiry little woman with a lot of nerve and courage. You see, Mr. Mayberry was pretty hard struck by the Depression, almost lost his business and his house, but managed to keep on his feet, and now I believe he is weathering it pretty well. But she's stood by him through thick and thin and done more work than she should, and been up late nights. You knew the daughter, Maris, was making a grand marriage, didn't you?"

"Merrick said something about a wedding as we came in, but I didn't quite catch the drift. He seemed to think it had something to do with his mother's condition."

"Yes, I shouldn't wonder. Maris is marrying into swelldom. A big snob, if you ask me. But don't say I said so. Of course, he's rich and painfully good looking, but she's too nice a little girl to let that count for everything. Oh, I guess he's all right, decent and all that, but acts like he was frozen in the making. Wait till you meet him. However, I wouldn't wonder if it has been rather hard to keep up to the social standards of his set. Not that the Mayberrys aren't every bit as good socially, and better, than the Thorpes, only they're not so afraid people won't know it. But I imagine there's been a lot of hard work and worry connected with trying to get ready all the fuss and feathers the Thorpes would expect. That's all. The good little mother is just worn out."

"But you think she could get well?"

"Yes, I think--I
hope
she could. That is, if she pulls through the next few days, she'd have a chance. But--there's more to it than that. She needs a quiet place away from everything that could possibly worry her. A place where she wouldn't hear anything but the clouds going by, and the flowers growing, and a bird or two now and then. If she could have about six months to a year in a place like that, yes, I'd say there was a good chance she might be her old self again and live out a healthy life. But I don't know how they could ever afford a place like that."

Lane Maitland was still for a whole block, and then he said thoughtfully, "I know a place like that, and it's standing idle. Let me know if it's needed, will you, Doctor?"

"I certainly will, son. And maybe I will let you know soon. And then again--I might not get the chance. You can't tell. But I'll not forget."

Lane stopped at his garage and picked up his car. He drove thoughtfully back to the Mayberrys' to get Merrick and take him after Sally. But he said nothing to Merrick about his talk with the doctor. He was remembering Maris when she was fourteen with her gold hair like a halo and her eyes shining. He used to carry her books home for her every day from school that last year before he went away. He wondered why he'd never kept up the correspondence with Maris. Only a Christmas card or two, and then they had lost sight of each other!

But something had to be done to help Mother Mayberry get well.

Then suddenly Merrick spoke.

"It's that doggone wedding that's got Mother's goat!" he broke forth. "I don't see why Maris doesn't see it."

"What could she do about it if she did?" asked Lane gravely.

"Well, that's just it. It seems that when a girl lets herself think she's in love with a man, that's the end of her. She's mesmerized or something. She has to do just exactly what he tells her to, no matter if the whole family is going to the dogs on account of it."

Lane considered this and then asked, "Is Maris in love with this man? Really in love?"

"Oh, gosh! How should I know? What is love, anyway? Thank goodness I've never been in love yet, but when I see any signs of it in myself I hope I'll have sense enough to consider whether my family that have loved me and slaved for me all my life are going to be alienated by it. It isn't right. It isn't reason."

"No," said Maitland, "it isn't right, but what are you going to do about it? The world has been going on that way pretty much ever since it was made, I guess. Of course, people ought to consider, but they don't. It's just glamour, I suppose, and you can't help yourself. But what's the matter with Maris's man? Isn't he all right?"

"All right? Well, I suppose most folks think he is. I guess he has pretty much that opinion of himself, but not me! Oh, how we
don't
love each other! I tell you, when this wedding is over he and I are going to be the most unloving brothers-in-law that ever were mismatched. And I don't mean maybe. And as for my mother and his mother, they're about as much alike as a wood thrush and a turkey."

"Not a very pleasant outlook," said Maitland, "but how does your sister reconcile all this?"

"My sister? Oh, she's
crazy
! That's what I say; love makes you crazy. You don't know what you're doing when you get in love. I hope I never get that way. Why, he rushed her, see? Took her out in his limousine. All the girls thinking he's grand just because he has curly eyelashes and wavy hair. He got her a great hog of a diamond, and he's taking her on a trip to Europe for the honeymoon, and she's completely numbed. She doesn't know what it's all about yet. She'll wake up sometime when it's too late and see what she's done to all of us, and to herself! I only hope our mother doesn't have to die to make her see!"

"She mustn't!" said Lane Maitland. "We mustn't let her! You know, I had a kind of a share in her, too. She nursed me through typhoid, and I'll never forget it."

"So she did, brother. You're one of us. Mother thought a lot of you."

"Well, look here, Merrick, I want you to promise me something. I want you to give me your word of honor that you will let me help just as if I were a real son and brother, will you?"

Merrick gave him a look of appreciation that held almost a hint of surprise.

"Why, sure, Lane, but I don't see how you could help just now. Oh, errands and things like that. Sure, we'll count on you, and love to do it. But----you sort of speak as if you had some inside information. The doctor didn't say anything leery about Mother, did he?"

"He said she was tired out. He said she needed a long rest. And if it comes to that, I've got just the place. I want you to promise if she has to go away you'll call on me."

"Sure I will, and don't you be afraid I'll forget it, either. That's great! But here's Sally's house, and I imagine we'd better get her back as soon as possible to the kitchen, for there's plenty for her to do there, I guess. Let's hope she's at home."

But just then Sally appeared at her door, curiously peering out to see what car was stopping before her place.

"Oh, there you are, Sally. Can you come along with us right away?" called Merrick. "Mother's been taken very sick, and we need you all kinds."

"Sure I'll come, Mr. Merrick! Your ma sick! Now I jes' thought 'twould end up that way. I was so sure, I didn't unpack my things much. I'll get my workin' clothes and come right in a little minute."

And true to her word, Sally didn't take long. She was soon out lugging a neat suitcase and climbing into the backseat of the car.

As they turned into the home street, Merrick sighted the limousine standing before the door.

"What the dickens!" He began scowling. "Why does that boob have to barge in on us when he knows we don't want him around?"

And then as the doctor's car shot around the corner and drew up behind the limousine, "Great Scott! Is that the doctor again? I thought he had to be at the hospital all the rest of the morning. He didn't tell you he was coming back, did he? You don't suppose Mother's worse, do you? You don't suppose they've sent for him again, do you?" And with a white face, Merrick leaned over, opened the door, and was out on the sidewalk before the car had really stopped.

"Easy, boy!" warned Maitland in a low tone. "Remember, it's important there be no noise!"

Merrick nodded and flung himself silently across the lawn and in at the door, his heart beating wildly, anxiously.

The doctor was there before him, though, and bending over the bed. Maris made way for him and slipped out into the hall.

"Mother wasn't breathing right and the nurse sent for him," she whispered to her brother, her white, anxious face showing him that there was still cause for alarm.

Solemnly the sister and brother stood together, breathless, watching what went on in the sickroom, grasping each other's hands without realizing it as their anxiety increased.

The doctor was very grave at first. They could tell by the way he touched the pulse, by his low-toned inquiries to the nurse, by the way he listened to the heart, that this was no light matter. It seemed a long time before the tenseness around the bedside decreased, and fear seemed to be vanquished, sliding out of the room once more. It was almost as if the room itself had drawn a sigh of release at the respite. Glancing at their father on the other side of the bed, still holding his wife's hand, they could see that the grayness was breaking about his eyes and lips once more, and hope was dawning again on his face. They hardly dared be sure till they heard the doctor's voice in a low murmur to the nurse: "That was a close shave," and saw her nodded response. They welcomed her alert, hopeful movements as they watched her putting the medicine glass on the table and writing something on the report card.

Then, and not till then, they withdrew to the hall window.

"What's the idea of that chauffeur out there?" murmured Merrick resentfully. "Is he waiting for something?"

Then suddenly Maris remembered.

"Oh!" she said, the color coming back into her white face. "I forgot! He's waiting for an answer to a note."

"Well, you'd better let me go down and tell him you haven't time to write any answers now, that your mother has been near death's door again. You look fit to go to bed yourself."

"No!" said Maris quickly. "I must write it. You wouldn't understand. It won't take but a minute! Lend me your pencil."

Maris took the pencil and wrote on the back of the crumpled letter.

 

Please do not send the dress. I cannot accept it on any condition. If it comes here, I shall call the shop and tell them it is a mistake. You do not understand how you have hurt me. Mother is worse. I have no time to write more.

Maris

 

She slipped it into an envelope and went down to the waiting chauffeur. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, "but my mother was taken very sick again. I have had no time to write but a line."

But even as the chauffeur took the note and turned to go, Maris, to her dismay, saw a handsome delivery truck drive up and stop. A man in a plum-colored uniform with silver buttons got out and came up the walk bearing a mammoth white box tenderly.

Maris, with hardening countenance, stood and watched him come. She mustn't let him ring that terrible bell again, and she must remember to muffle it as soon as he was gone.

"Are you from Leon Archer's shop?" she asked. "Well, this is a mistake. You'll have to take it back. I just found out that it had been ordered and was about to call up and tell them not to send it."

"But I was told to leave it here, ma'am!" said the man.

"Yes, but I'm telling you to take it back. I cannot receive it. It was a misunderstanding. I will call the shop immediately and explain."

Reluctantly the man turned with his magnificent box and went back to the truck, and Maris hurried to the kitchen to see what she could do to suppress the bell.

But she found Lane Maitland there ahead of her, perched on the stepladder, working away at the bell, which already showed signs of submission.

"Oh," said Maris with relief, "how did you know what I wanted?"

"Well, you see, I remembered that bell of old. You won't recall it likely, but I was sick in this house once, and I know how that bell used to go through my head when my fever was the worst."