UNEXPECTED COMPANY
A BRIGHT winter afternoon, and they were in the parlour having a
wonderful time. The way that fire burned in that new stove was a
continual source of delight.
No stove like it had the young Tuckers ever sat beside. Delicate little
windows all around, which glowed and sparkled, or showed the forked
flames of a lovely blue. Those great black lumps of coal looked so
hard and gloomy when they were poured in, and took such beautiful hues
soon after, that Karl and Christie were never weary of watching and
speculating.
To-day, though, there was something of more importance than even the
fire. For the first time in their lives they had invited the minister
to tea.
He had arrived in good time, and hung his overcoat in the little hall,
and rubbed his hands before the glowing fire, and taken a seat in one
of the great easy chairs, and said, "Well, now, isn't this comfortable!"
And the Tuckers, every one of them, thought it was.
Mr. Tucker, at first inclined to be a little shy of the minister, had
exerted himself as the host, and found it not so hard a thing, after
all, to talk with a sensible man who knew something about farms, as
well as books, and seemed anxious to know more, for he asked a great
many questions concerning things that Mr. Tucker did not know he either
thought or cared about.
Then Karl, who had declared all the morning that he was not coming into
the parlour at all, for he did not want to see the minister, and that
the minister did not want to see him, had brushed his hair, and put
on a fresh collar, and washed his hands until they glowed, and, when
Christie, who had been sent to get the almanac to decide a question of
dates, came back, she found him sitting in a chair near the minister.
That gentleman had his arm on the back of the chair, and was leaning
toward Karl, and saying, "So, my boy, you see we must be the best of
friends since we are namesakes."
And Karl was looking pleased, and stayed and listened to the talk until
it was time to help with the chores. It was an afternoon to remember.
Other strange things happened. It was Christie herself who first saw
the fine carriage and the gay horses, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise, almost of dismay, as they halted before the gate. Mr. Keith
paused in his sentence, and looked out of the window.
"Ah," he said, "you are going to have more company, I think, Mrs.
Tucker; here is Mr. Burton's carriage stopping at your gate."
"Mother," said Christie, in a low, eager tone, "it is Wells, and he has
to walk with a cane. Shall I go to the door, or will father?"
"Why, your father will see to it, child. He has been sent here on an
errand, I suppose."
So Mr. Tucker went out to receive Wells. But his errand apparently was
not at the door, for he came limping in.
"How do you do?" he said heartily, not a bit embarrassed by his cane.
"This is Mrs. Tucker, I believe; I am very glad to see you, ma'am,
because you are my friend Christie's mother. I should never have been
here to see you, but for her, you know. That is, I mean I should not
have been anywhere."
He stood beside Mrs. Tucker, shaking her hand, and looking handsome and
happy. Christie had slipped into a seat at her mother's side, but he
turned to her.
"Here is my travelling companion; you reached home safely, I see; so
did I, thanks to you. Aren't you glad to see me? I have been in a
tremendous hurry to get out here, came the first day the doctor would
let me. Won't you introduce me to your friend and your brother?"
Poor Christie's cheeks glowed hotter than the fire. She had never
introduced any people in her life! It was worse than a postscript to a
letter; how did they begin, she wondered. But Mr. Keith did not want an
introduction:
"I was waiting for my turn," he said cheerily. "I am glad to see you,
sir. I know your face very well by this time, and your name, so we
ought to consider ourselves acquainted, though you were not at home
when I called on your mother."
They were shaking hands by this time, like old friends, and Christie
could only look on and admire; how easily it was done. Then Wells
turned at once to Karl:
"We are acquainted," he said, "if Mr. Keith is right. I have known this
long time that you were Karl Tucker, and I suppose you have known that
I was Wells Burton; so now let us shake hands and consider it settled."
What a thing it was to know just what to say, and how to say it, and
to feel so much at ease! It seemed so pleasant to think of this boy
shaking hands with Karl. He was much taller than Karl, and looked a
good deal older, and of course he knew more. But she could not help
wishing he knew how strong Karl was, and how helpful to his father, and
how sensibly he talked about the work on the farm.
"He has almost as good judgment as a man," she had heard her father say.
If Wells Burton knew those things, he could not help liking Karl, even
if he did blush and look down at his strong boots and feel unable to
say a word before the handsome city-bred boy. But Wells did not wait
for words; he had already turned back to Mrs. Tucker:
"My mamma sent a message by me, ma'am: she is very sorry that she has
not been able to call and see you, since my accident and escape. She
thought of writing, but she said you would know how hard it was for a
mother to put her heart on paper, and she hoped every day to get out
here, but my brother had an alarming illness that has kept her right
at his side day and night. And my father was telegraphed for, on the
very evening on which I was hurt, and went East by the morning train,
where he has been detained ever since. He wrote that he was afraid you
and Mr. Tucker would think he was a man without a heart, but he hoped
to convince you to the contrary very soon. He is coming home to-morrow,
and will be out as soon after reaching home as possible, but I was
resolved on being first."
It sounded just like a speech in a book! Admiring Christie could think
of no other way to describe it to herself.
And as for her mother, she was as bad as Karl, she could think of
nothing to say. To be sure she had said to Christie only a few days
before, that "a body would think the Burtons might say 'thank you,'
when all the train-men said that Christie's quick-wittedness had saved
their boy's life." But then she had not expected thanks, for she had
added as a sort of second thought to her first remark:
"To be sure we don't want their thanks, and they would feel kind of
foolish trying to give them, for of course they are thankful, and they
know that we know it, so what's the use?"
This, however, would not do to say to Wells, and so while he waited,
his bright glad eyes fixed on her, she blushed and stammered a little.
It would not do to say she would be glad to see his mother, for she
felt in her heart that she did not want to see her; so at last she said:
"Why, as to that, folks can't 'say' things in this world of that kind,
they can only feel them. And as for Christie, she only did what was
right."
The bright-eyed boy laughed. "Yes," he said, "it was right, but the
thing was, to think of it, and then to do it in a hurry; it was grand,
wasn't it, Mr. Keith?
"Oh, Christie, I saw one of your friends, yesterday! I haven't told you
why I didn't get here before; I came out one day last week, on purpose
to see you, and getting off the cars, I forgot all about my lame ankle,
and gave a hop that sort of twisted it, and it kept me awake half the
night, and on the sofa all the next day, and as I had promised mamma to
be back in the city by the next night, I had to go without doing what I
came out for. Well, going back I saw the mother of the baby—"
"My baby?" eagerly interrupted Christie, forgetting all about
listeners, and intent only on hearing from the dear baby whom she had
taken into her heart that day.
"Yes; your baby. I knew her, of course, the moment I caught sight of
her, the mother, I mean, and I went forward and took a seat near her,
and asked at once after his majesty. She said he was well, and in his
grandmother's arms, she hoped, at that moment. He had not been in the
cars since that dreadful day, and she did not know as she could ever
let him go in them again. She begged his grandmother not to let him out
of her sight while she was away. I couldn't help telling her that I
thought it was the baby who ought to have arranged for her to be looked
after; he didn't get lost, I told her. If I remembered correctly, it
was she who was missing; the baby was in his seat, and remained in
the cars until he reached his journey's end, but she was the one who
skipped."
"Did you tell her that?" asked Christie, in great amusement. She was
thinking how impossible it would have been for her to have talked in
such a merry way with that grand lady.
"Yes, I did," he said, laughing. "We had such a time doing without
her that day, that it seemed to me she didn't fully appreciate which
of them made the trouble. She says the little fellow is well, and as
bright as ever. I told her I knew he had strong lungs. She laughed a
great deal over my story as to how he managed us all that day. She
asked a hundred or so questions about you, and when I told her that I
hoped to see you in a few days, she sent a message by me. I was to tell
you that she had been sick, and had not been able to carry out certain
plans, which was the reason that you had not heard from her, but she
thought you would in a very few days."
"Heard from her!" repeated Christie, her eyes bright with excitement
and surprise. "Why, is she going to write to me? I never thought of
such a thing. Oh, Karl, there will be another letter to answer!"
"Sure enough!" said Wells, looking over to Mr. Keith and laughing
outright. "It is very strange that she should ever think of you again!
Probably she wanted her baby to bump around on that floor and kill
himself, and was a little disappointed because you didn't allow him to
do so."
Over this Christie exclaimed indignantly. Then followed a good deal of
animated talk—questions and answers about that baby and that baby's
mother. Wells was so bright a talker and was so undoubtedly interested
in the baby, that Karl was drawn out of his reserve to ask questions
and offer suggestions. And at last, the young people were thoroughly
enjoying themselves.
"We are left out in the cold," said Mr. Keith, smiling, as at last
the three heads drew nearer together and the voices dropped a little.
Then he drew his chair a little nearer to Mr. Tucker, and the mother
slipped away to see about the nice supper she was preparing, giving the
minister a chance to speak some earnest words, that he very much wanted
to speak.
"I say, Christie," said Wells, suddenly looking at his watch, "I
suppose I must go home, unless—do you think you could coax your mother
to let me stay to tea?"
"Why!" said Christie, shocked at that way of putting it, and gleeful
over the suggestion. "Would you really stay? Mother—" as that lady
entered the room again—"Wells wants to know if he may stay to tea?" Her
voice was merry and her eyes were dancing.
Karl looked at her in silent amazement. The idea of their Christie
being well enough acquainted with that handsome young fellow to call
him "Wells," right before his face. And the idea of asking if he might
stay to their house to tea!
"Why, why!" said Mrs. Tucker, in a flutter of surprise. "What a
question, child! Don't you know we shall be glad enough to have him, if
he will?"
"Well, he will," said the young visitor joyfully. "It is dreadfully
lonesome at home; nobody there but the housekeeper, and the rest of
them. No, ma'am, my people are in the city, but they are coming out the
last of the week. I shall like to stay very much indeed; I'll go right
out and tell Dennis when to come for me."
He reached for his cane, and Karl sprang to wait on him, and to offer
to do the errand. And finally they went out together, and stood by the
handsome carriage which had just drawn up in front of the gate; stood
there and talked, first with Dennis, and then with each other, and at
last walked slowly back toward the house, and then turned off and went
to the barn.
Christie from the window watched them until the great barn door closed
after them, then gave a little sigh of satisfaction. It was very
nice to think of Karl and Wells Burton as having a visit in the barn
together. Karl could certainly never be so much afraid of him after
this as he had been, and, would not look so sober, and so sort of "left
out," when she told him things about that journey connected with Wells.
Mr. Keith watched her happy face. "What is the pleasant thought that
shines on it?" he asked her.
Christie turned suddenly and found that she was alone with the
minister. She blushed a little and came away from the window, and
following his motioning hand, took a seat quite near him.
"How is it, Christie," he asked, "in all these happy times, and with
the pretty room to sit in, and the new friends to think about, and
their presents to enjoy, does the best Friend seem nearer or farther
away?"
"Oh, Mr. Keith! He isn't far-away. It seems to me as though He came
nearer every day. And there was something I wanted to ask you; mother
said perhaps you would help us. These things, you know, this pretty
furniture, and the carpet, and everything, they were to be used for the
sake of the Elder Brother; that is what he said, and of course I must
use them so or I would not have any right to them; and I don't think I
know how. Mother and I have tried to think of ways, but I can't seem to
settle on any. Could you help me, sir, if you please?"
"Why, I think you have found ways already. Haven't the pretty things
helped you to make a chance for me to come here and visit you, and get
acquainted with your father and have a little talk with him about this
Friend? You know he has been busy, or away from home when I have been
here before. But this afternoon, he stayed at home to visit with me,
and we have had a pleasant talk."
"Oh, but," said Christie, her eyes bright, "those are lovely things
that we like so much; they are just helping ourselves. We wanted you
to come a good while ago, but we never could fix things so that mother
thought they would do. But we are just doing this for ourselves,
because we like it; this isn't work for Jesus."
"You can't be sure of that, little friend; the fact is, when we really
want to please Him, nearly everything that He gives us to do becomes
after a while such pleasant work that we would rather do it than not,
just for our own sakes."
"Is that so?" she asked, surprised. "I was looking for a hard thing to
do. Are there not some hard things, sir? I thought of one that I would
not like to do, and that perhaps I ought, but I don't know about it,
and mother said she didn't. She said perhaps it would do more harm than
good, but I might try it if I thought best, and I thought I would wait
until I asked you."
"Tell me all about it," he said, sitting back in his chair. "Some
things look hard on the outside, but have pleasant things hidden inside
the shell, like a nut, you know."
"Well," said Christie, smoothing out her white apron, "you know those
Cox people who live in the next street, back from the road a little
way?"
"I am not sure that I do. Cox? I don't remember that name; the next
street above here?"
"Yes, sir; well, it isn't exactly a street, it is a sort of lane. They
live in a little log house. I don't suppose you are acquainted with
them, after all; they are very poor, bad-acting people, at least the
father is. He drinks hard cider most all the time, and they don't ever
go to church; and the children, Lucius and Lucy, are about the age of
Karl and me. They are dreadful-acting children, and they are not clean.
Lucy doesn't have her hair combed, and Lucius has holes in his clothes,
not patches, you know, but 'holes;' they must have dreadful times! I
went to the house one day, for mother; their baby was sick, and they
had sent for mother, and she sent to me to bring her some things, and
it was a dreadful looking place."
"And what was your thought about them, little sister?" The minister's
voice had a very gentle sound, almost a humble one, if Christie had
known it. He was beginning to wonder whether God had sent him there to
"get" some help as well as to give some.
"Why," said Christie, twisting the hem of her apron a little, in her
embarrassment, "I didn't know but maybe if I had them here one day,
and showed them my pretty room, and all our nice things, and tried to
be real pleasant to them, and treat them like company, and we got them
a nice tea, warmed potatoes, and good healthy things, you know, and
a little bit of cake, maybe it might do them some good. But I wasn't
sure, because they would have to go right back home, you see, and
maybe be hungry the very next day, and sleep in that dark room off the
kitchen, where baby was sick, and mother said she did not know, she was
sure, whether it would do good or harm."
"And that was one of the hard things which you did not want to do? Can
you tell me that side of it? I mean, can you explain why you did not
want to do it?"
"Why, you see, they are not very clean, their hands and faces, and I
thought maybe they would handle our things, and leave dirt marks on
them, and sit down in these pretty chairs, and soil them; and, oh, I
don't know, there were other reasons. Karl said we would not know what
in the world to say to them, and I don't suppose we would. But then we
were all willing to try, if it was the right way, but none of us knew.
We asked father, and he said Mr. Cox was a poor shack, and he guessed
there couldn't be much made of his family, and maybe the best way was
to let them alone. But then, the next morning he said that maybe that
wasn't the right kind of talk, and we must do, mother and I, as we
thought best, and you see we didn't know 'what' we thought."
"I see," said the minister, and he drew out his handkerchief and wiped
his face and his eyes.
Then he was still for so long that Christie thought he had forgotten
all about it. At last he spoke:
"I believe, Christie, if I were you, I would try it; there's nothing
like trying. I don't know the Cox children, nor their parents. I passed
that old house last week, and wondered who lived there; I am glad to
find out. You are helping me, you see, and but for these pretty things,
perhaps you would never have told me about the Cox children. What if
you carry out your plan, and have that nice supper, with the warmed
potatoes, you know, and invite me to come too?"
"Why, would you?" said Christie, too amazed to add another word for a
moment. Then she said: "Well if mother will, I will."
Then the door opened, and the two boys came in from the barn.