Read Ebook: Won at last by Giberne Agnes

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Ebook has 1604 lines and 50539 words, and 33 pages

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.

"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:--

"MY DEAR NIECE MARION,--I hope you and your good husband and all your party are well. I cannot say I am in health myself, but doubtless it is only to be expected that I should not feel quite so young as I once was." "It is now three months since I have seen any of you. Will you tell your husband that I shall be pleased if he will come to visit me some day soon; either taking early dinner or tea at my house, whichever he may prefer. Also I should like to see one of your children. If Jack has been a good boy lately, he has the first right as eldest. Otherwise my nephew may bring Cherry." "I am aware that he will have to wait till he can find a leisure day. The expense may be a matter of consideration to you, therefore I will undertake it. Of course Robert travels third-class." "Excuse a short letter, as my hands are rather disabled by rheumatic gout; and believe me, your affectionate Aunt," "ELIZABETH BRISCOE."

"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."

WHAT TO DO WITH HER?

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