MISS PERKINS' NEW INMATE
MILDRED PATTISON'S coming to, out of her long unconsciousness, was a
slow and tedious affair. Not only had she been three-fourths drowned
before the brave crew of rescuers dragged her into their boat, but
also, when the rising tide, with a final effort, dashed the boat bottom
up on the shingles, smashing Mr. Gilbert's right arm, stunning Adams,
and breaking Jack Groates' leg, Millie received a blow upon her head,
sufficient to have rendered her senseless, apart from other calamities.
She was taken first to old Adams' cottage, the most roomy of all the
small cottages "down at the Corner." Every effort was there made to
bring her to, and enough success rewarded the efforts to show that
she was living. But though more than once Millie opened her eyes and
gazed vaguely about, it could scarcely be called "consciousness." In
after-days she had no recollection of this time, or of being conveyed
to Old Maxham.
The question soon arose: What was to be done with her? Adams' family
had enough to do in looking after himself; and they were very poor;
and space was scanty. But for Mr. Gilbert's severe injuries, he would
doubtless have had her taken to the Vicarage, and placed under the care
of his old housekeeper. That plan now was impossible; at all events, he
was too ill to think of it, and the old housekeeper counted that her
hands were sufficiently full.
For a while no one else came forward. Few indeed were in a position to
do so. Most of the Old Maxham people were more or less poor; and not
many could boast the possession of an unused room,—the doctor least of
all, since he had not only six small children, but one or two permanent
invalids as patients.
Then it was that Miss Perkins astonished everybody by stepping into the
breach. She had been present for a short time, had heard everything,
had listened to what everybody had to say. And when the world in
general, as represented down at the Point, had reached the end of its
wits, Miss Perkins spoke.
She had a spare room, she said; and she didn't suppose any lodgers
would be likely to come yet awhile. The poor woman might come and sleep
in that room just for a few days, till she was well enough to go on her
journey to her home. Of course she'd got a home somewhere, and friends
expecting her. Yes, it meant a lot of trouble, of course. Folks had got
to take trouble sometimes. Miss Perkins didn't know as she was one who
minded trouble particular. Anyway, if the woman hadn't got nowhere else
to go to, why, there was the bedroom ready.
"That's splendid of you, Miss Perkins!" the village doctor said
impulsively.
Miss Perkins twitched the end of her long nose, and sniffed. She didn't
know as there was anything out of the common, she said, in letting a
room be used, when it wasn't wanted, by a poor thing as hadn't got
anywhere else to go.
"Only, it may mean—Well, of course I can't tell you exactly how soon
she'll be fit to move," suggested the doctor. "That blow on the head
might mean mischief; and if fever set in—"
Miss Perkins didn't see as she had any call to be expecting evils.
"No, no; I only thought it right to warn you about possibilities. But
at the worst she could be taken to the hospital. I'm afraid so long a
drive in her present state would be a serious risk." The doctor might
well fear this, since the nearest hospital was fifteen miles off.
"Well, I can only say you're a splendid woman, Miss Perkins."
Miss Perkins might have been inwardly gratified; but she received the
praise with outward disdain. And when one or two minor arrangements had
been made, she set off to make things ready at home.
She would have found it difficult to explain why she had offered her
room: still more why, having offered it, she should feel positively
ashamed of her own generosity, and should shrink from telling her
niece. Something in the pale face of the unconscious half-drowned
woman, friendless and forlorn, had appealed to the softer side of her
nature, and to some extent she had acted on impulse. Certainly, no one
would have expected Miss Perkins so to rise to the needs of another;
and perhaps it was this very knowledge of having done the unexpected
which made her feel bashful.
More than once, while hurrying along the rough road, she regretted her
own precipitation, wondering whether she might not find herself to be
"in for" a good deal more than she had calculated on. It was a positive
relief to her mind to find Jessie absent, and not at once to have to
confess what she had done. Not that she supposed Jessie to be likely to
object, or that she would have cared if Jessie had objected, but only
that she shrank oddly from appearing in a more benevolent character
than her wont.
She threw off bonnet and shawl, lighted a fire in the spare room, made
the bed, which was always kept well aired, and put a hot bottle between
the sheets. Then, under a queer sense of shyness, she resumed her seat
and her work, to be found by Jessie, as already described. And there
can be no question that Miss Perkins was charmed to seize upon an
excuse for putting her niece to bed out of the way, and so deferring
for a time the need to tell her news.
Mildred Pattison's arrival happened opportunely, when Jessie was
sound asleep. Still secrecy could not be long preserved; and when
Miss Perkins, after long delay, made her appearance anew in the attic
bedroom, it was to find Jessie sitting up in bed, listening with all
her ears.
"Aunt Barbara, I'm positive there's somebody in the room below."
"You didn't eat that gruel, Jessie."
"Oh, I couldn't. It was so horrid. And I'm not ill,—not in the least
ill. Is there somebody in the spare room? Why mayn't I know?"
"There's no reason why you mayn't, I suppose."
"Then who is it? Do tell me."
"Nobody of consequence to make a fuss about. It's just the poor
creature off the wreck."
"Oh-h-h!" Jessie's eyes and mouth widened in sympathy.
"She hadn't got any place to go to . . . So they've just brought her
here for a day or two. Lodgers ain't likely to turn up yet . . . And if
they do, they'll have to wait, I s'pose."
Jessie did what she had not done for at least ten years past. She
sprang up on her knees in the bed, and clutched Miss Perkins round the
neck in a hearty hug.
"Aunt Barbara! O how kind! How very very good of you!"
"There's no call to rumple my capstrings."
Jessie released her, but wore a look of delight.
"How lovely of you! I never should have thought you'd be the one to do
anything of the sort."
Yes, that was it. Nobody expected good deeds from Miss Perkins.
Anybody, rather than Miss Perkins. The fact caused a sense of injury.
Why might not she do a kindness naturally and simply, like other
people, without uplifted hands and amazed eyes to follow? If Mr.
Gilbert had taken the poor woman to the Vicarage, no one would have
been in the least degree surprised.
"Never!" repeated Jessie, without the smallest intention of hurting
Miss Perkins' feelings. "That poor thing! How glad she must be!"
"She isn't. She doesn't know anything."
"Hasn't she come round yet?"
"Not she. Just opened her eyes, and that's all. I've got a fine peck of
work before me, looking after her. As like as not, she'll be ill and
die."
This was not quite consistent with her own observation to the doctor;
but few people are consistent all round.
"Oh, I don't believe she will. You'll nurse her so beautifully, she's
sure to get well."
The intended compliment fell flat. Miss Perkins wore a lugubrious
expression, and was not to be cheered. Having told her tale, however,
she no longer opposed Jessie's desire to be up and dressed; and really
she had enough to do to require her niece's help.