In respect of various household matters, such as laying of tables, washing of china, dusting of rooms, and cookery, Maimie proved herself an adept. She was very quick, and beautifully neat.
“I never liked housework, but mother always made me,” she said in explanation, when surprise was shown.
The real puli lay more in connection with needlework. Maimie seemed to have an unconquerable aversion to her needle. Delicate and pretty work would have been more to her taste; but in our house, patching, turning, and darning were the order of the day.
Maimie fought hard against her dislike, and forced herself to sit over it hour after hour, with burning cheeks, struggling to be “useful.” I did not at all realise how great the strain was. Cherry saw it long before I did, probably because she cared more for Maimie. But I think Maimie withheld her from speaking.
The change to our confined London home was very great to Maimie Browne, after her free country life, with fresh country air and abundant exercise. Cherry and I had seldom time to go out, except on little shopping excursions, or for a short walk with the younger children. And Maimie was too young and pretty, and too strange to London, for much wandering about alone.
She had some long half-holiday rambles with the boys, when weather permitted, and these helped to keep her in health for a time. But when she took so eagerly to helping us with work, we found it difficult to persuade her to go out as much as even we thought needful.
Had I fully understood the manner of Maimie’s life hitherto, the way in which she had spent her days among trees and flowers, the absolute freedom and ease which she had known from infancy, I think I should have judged much more to be necessary.
I did notice, as weeks went on, that she was drooping; but it seemed to me that her stepfather’s continued silence was enough to account for this. She had been pale when she first came, a pretty soft healthy paleness, with coral lips in contrast. But now a tinge of unhealthy yellow was creeping into the paleness, and the coral red was dying into a faint pink, and the black eyes were losing their sparkle.
I thought Maimie was depressed, and I offered few remarks. It is not always wise to make young girls nervous about themselves, by talking too much of their health. And I fancied Maimie was one who would give in readily, as soon as needful. But I did not then know the strength of her will.
“Mother, I don’t think Maimie is well,” Jack said sometimes. Somehow his solicitude made me less inclined to act, not more inclined. Was I jealous of Jack’s admiration for Maimie—my Jack, who had hitherto been only mine? How often the anxious looks which had been so often bent upon me, were now bent upon Maimie! Well, was it not natural? Jack was reaching an age when boys will begin to have their little fancies. He was as good a son to me as ever, only there was now somebody else too. Just the merest fancy of course on his part—he such a boy still, and she a mere child. Yet I know it was pain to me. I could have given Maimie more love, if Jack had given her less.