Chapter XXIV: The Sacrifice

AS Churton left the room, Maimie sprang across, and threw herself into my arms.

“O Aunt Marion!” and she gasped for breath.

“Maimie, how could you? We cannot part with you, darling.”

“Oh, it must be. It would have come to this sooner or later. Father will not give me up, you see. And I ought to be there,—I ought to be there.”

“But so short a notice,” I said sorrowfully.

“That is his way of punishing me. Was I wrong to speak to him as I did? I wish I could love him more. But don’t make me cry—don’t. I must go. O Aunt Marion!”

“What will your Uncle say?” I asked, with a kind of stunned feeling.

“I don’t know. You will tell him all. He will understand. And perhaps I shall only be a few days away. Father may get tired of me. I shall be on the spot, and perhaps I can do something—perhaps. But I must not waste time.”

She hurried upstairs, and threw her clothes into it trunk with feverish haste.

“I shall not take much,—only enough for a visit. Things can easily be sent or fetched. And this will always be home to me still—always. I shall try to come very soon and see you all. But if I don’t, you will understand. Perhaps at first he may not let me.”

I was weeping by this time, while Maimie seemed to have no tears to shed. She only looked flushed and burdened.

“Don’t cry,” she said once or twice, coming to cling to me. “O don’t! It has to be.”

“Maimie, I don’t think I can let you go like this.”

“But you must,” she said. “It is for Uncle’s sake, you know. I must see if things are going wrong, and if they can be put right. And by-and-by,—oh, it doesn’t do to look forward. We must trust for by-and-by.”

Not too much time was allowed. Half-an-hour had scarcely passed, when Churton’s steps sounded in the hall. Once more Maimie threw herself upon me, clinging passionately.

“Aunt Marion, it is hard to go; but I must; it does seem right. If I could but have seen dear, dear Uncle Robert again! And poor Jack,—you must give my love to him. Don’t tell him a word of that—you know—what I said to father about—about marrying.”

“No, darling,” I said; “I will not.”

“It was the only thing that really brought him to what I wanted. And it was true, wasn’t it?”

“True that you could—perhaps—make poor Jack happy?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. It was true that more than one wants to marry me.”

“And the other—is it not true, Maimie?”

She flushed brightly. “I don’t know,—I only said I could—I didn’t say I would. Perhaps,—but I must not think of that now. I have to do what father tells me. But tell Jack how sorry I am to say good-bye to him—to you all—for a few days. Perhaps it won’t be longer. Oh, I do wish I could thank you rightly for all your love and kindness to me.”

“Come, Maimie,” shouted Churton.

I ran downstairs first, and protested earnestly against this hurried departure, but in vain. “The girl had taken her choice, and she should abide by it,” Churton replied shortly. “He had no doubt she had been put up to all this by others.” Then Maimie followed me into the hall, and there was another good-bye, and she was gone.

And I sat alone in the parlour, desolate at heart, till Cherry came home, and heard all. We shed many tears together.

It was harder work to tell my husband, and hardest of all to tell Jack. I think they marvelled at me for letting Maimie go, and I marvelled at myself,—yet what could I have done? The whole thing seemed to come like a flash of lightning, all power being taken out of my hands.

“She is sacrificing herself for us, dear child,” Robert said, when he and I talked the matter over. “I do not know whether we ought to allow it—if we have power to refuse. But Churton has a certain authority over her.”

Jack vanished for a long while that evening, and when present with the rest of us, he scarcely spoke a word.