UNINVITED GUESTS
A few nights later, when Maxwell returned from his work he found Mrs.
Burke sitting on the front platform of the tent with Mrs. Betty; and
having washed, and changed his clothes, he persuaded their visitor to
stay to supper. After supper was over they sat out doors, chatting of
Maxwell's amusing experiences.
They had not been sitting long when their attention was attracted by a
noise up the street, and going to the fence they saw a horse, over
which the driver evidently had lost control, galloping towards them,
with a buggy which was swerving from side to side under the momentum
of its terrific speed.
Maxwell rushed into the middle of the street to see if he could be of
any assistance in stopping the horse and preventing a catastrophe; but
before he could get near enough to be of any service the animal
suddenly shied, the buggy gave a final lurch, overturned, and was
thrown violently against a telegraph pole. The horse, freed, dashed
on, dragging the shafts and part of the harness. The occupant of the
buggy had been thrown out against the telegraph pole with considerable
force, knocked senseless, and lay in the gutter, stained with blood
and dirt. Mrs. Burke and Betty lifted the body of the buggy, while
Maxwell pulled out from under it the senseless form of a man; and when
they had turned him over and wiped the blood from his face, they
discovered, to their utter amazement, that the victim was no less a
personage than the Senior Warden, Sylvester Bascom.
Of course there was nothing to be done but to carry him as best they
could into the tent, and lay him on a lounge. Maxwell ran hastily for
a doctor, while Hepsey and Mrs. Betty applied restoratives, washed the
face of the injured man, and bound up as best they could what appeared
to be a serious wound on one wrist, and another on the side of his
head. The doctor responded promptly, and after a thorough examination
announced that Bascom was seriously hurt, and that at present it would
be dangerous to remove him. So Mrs. Betty and her guest removed
Maxwell's personal belongings, and improvised a bed in the front room
of the tent, into which Bascom was lifted with the greatest care.
Having done what he could, the doctor departed, promising to return
soon. In about twenty minutes there were signs of returning
consciousness, and for some time Bascom looked about him in a dazed
way, and groaned with pain. Mrs. Burke decided at once to remain all
night with Mrs. Betty, and assist in caring for the warden until
Virginia could arrive and assume charge of the case. After about an
hour, Bascom seemed to be fully conscious as he gazed from one face to
another, and looked wonderingly at the canvas tent in which he found
himself. Mrs. Burke bent over him and inquired:
"Are you in much pain, Mr. Bascom?"
For a moment or two the Senior Warden made no answer; then in a hoarse
whisper he inquired:
"Where am I? What has happened?"
"Well, you see, something frightened your horse, and your buggy was
overturned, and you were thrown against a telegraph pole and injured
more or less. We picked you up and brought you in here, cleaned you
up, and tried to make you as comfortable as possible. The doctor has
been here and looked you over, and will return in a few minutes."
"Am I seriously injured?"
"You have two bad wounds, and have evidently lost a good deal of
blood; but don't worry. Mrs. Betty and I and the rest of us will take
good care of you and do all we can until Virginia is able to take you
home again."
"Where am I?"
A curious expression of mild triumph and amusement played across Mrs.
Burke's face as she replied:
"You are in Donald Maxwell's tent. This was the nearest place where we
could bring you at the time of the accident."
For a moment a vestige of color appeared in Bascom's face, and he
whispered hoarsely:
"Why didn't you take me home?"
"Well, we were afraid to move you until the doctor had examined you
thoroughly."
The patient closed his eyes wearily.
It was evident that he was growing weaker, and just as the doctor
returned, he again lapsed into unconsciousness. The doctor felt of
Bascom's pulse, and sent Maxwell hastily for Doctor Field for
consultation. For fifteen minutes the doctors were alone in Bascom's
room, and then Doctor Field called Maxwell in and quietly informed him
that the warden had lost so much blood from the wound in the wrist
that there was danger of immediate collapse unless they resorted to
extreme measures, and bled some one to supply the patient. To this
Maxwell instantly replied:
"I am strong and well. There is no reason why you should hesitate for
a moment. Send for your instruments at once; but my wife must know
nothing of it until it is all over with. Tell Mrs. Burke to take her
over to Thunder Cliff for an hour or two, on the pretext of getting
some bedding. Yes, I insist on having my own way, and as you say,
there is no time to be lost."
Doctor Field took Mrs. Burke aside, and the women immediately departed
for Thunder Cliff. The necessary instruments were brought, and then
the three men entered the sick room.
In about twenty minutes Maxwell came out of the invalid's room,
assisted by Doctor Field, and stretched himself on the bed.
Bascom's color began slowly to return; his pulse quickened, and Dr.
Field remarked to his colleague:
"Well, I think the old chap is going to pull through after all; but it
was a mighty close squeak."
Meanwhile, the messenger who had been sent out to Willow Bluff to
apprise Virginia of her father's accident returned with the
information that Virginia had left the day before, to stay with
friends, and could not possibly get home till next day. It was decided
to telegraph for her; and in the meantime the doctors advised that Mr.
Bascom be left quietly in his bed at the new "rectory," and be moved
home next day, after having recovered some of his lost strength. Mrs.
Betty and Mrs. Burke took turns in watching by the invalid that night,
and it might have been observed that his eyes remained closed, even
when he did not sleep, while Mrs. Burke was in attendance, but that he
watched Mrs. Betty with keen curiosity and wonder, from between
half-closed lids, as she sat at the foot of his bed sewing, or moved
about noiselessly preparing the nourishment prescribed for him by the
doctors, and which the old gentleman took from her with unusual
gentleness and patience.
It was Mrs. Burke who, having learned of the time when Virginia was
expected to return home, drove out to Willow Bluff with Mr. Bascom,
and assisted in making him comfortable there before his daughter's
arrival. He volunteered no word on their way thither, but lay back
among his cushions and pillows with closed eyes, pale and
exhausted--though the doctors assured the Maxwells that there was no
cause for anxiety on the score of his removal, when they urged that he
be left in their care until he had regained more strength.
It was a white and scared Virginia who listened to Hepsey's account of
all that had happened--an account which neither over-stated the
Bascoms' debt to the Maxwells nor spared Virginia's guilty
conscience.
When she found that her father had been the guest of the Maxwells and
that they had played the part of good Samaritans to him in the tent in
which the Senior Warden had obliged them to take refuge, she was
thoroughly mortified, and there was a struggle between false pride and
proper gratitude.
"It is very awkward, is it not, Mrs. Burke?" she said. "I ought
certainly to call on Mrs. Maxwell and thank her--but--under the
circumstances----"
"What circumstances?" asked Hepsey.
"Well, you know, it will be very embarrassing for me to go to Mr.
Maxwell's tent after what has happened between him and--my father."
"I'm not sure that I catch on, Virginia. Which happenin' do you mean?
Your father's cold-blooded ejection of the Maxwells from their house,
or Mr. Maxwell's warm-blooded sacrifice to save your father's life?
Perhaps it _is_ a bit embarrassing, as you call it, to thank a man for
givin' his blood to save your father."
"It is a more personal matter than that," replied Virginia, gazing
dramatically out of the window. "You don't quite seem to appreciate
the delicacy of the situation, Mrs. Burke."
"No, I'm blessed if I do. But then you know I'm very stupid about some
things, Virginia. Fact is, I'm just stupid enough to imagine--no, I
mean think--that it would be the most natural thing in the world to go
straight to the Maxwells and thank 'em for all they've done for your
father in takin' him in and givin' him the kind of care that money
can't buy. There's special reasons that I needn't mention why you
should say thank you, and say it right."
Virginia examined the toe of her boot for some time in silence and
then began:
"But you don't understand the situation, Mrs. Burke."
"Virginia, if you don't stop that kind of thing, I shall certainly
send for the police. Are you _lookin'_ for a situation? If you have
got anything to say, say it."
"Well, to be quite frank with you, Mrs. Burke, I must confess that at
one time Mr. Maxwell and I were supposed to be very good friends."
"Naturally. You ought to be good friends with your rector. I don't see
anything tragic about that."
"But we were something more than friends."
"Who told you? You can't believe all you hear in a town like this.
Maybe some one was foolin' you."
"I ought to know what I am talking about. He accepted our hospitality
at Willow Bluff, and was so attentive that people began to make
remarks."
"Well, people have been makin' remarks ever since Eve told Adam to put
his apron on for dinner. Any fool can make remarks, and the biggest
fool is the one who cares. Are you sure that you didn't make any
remarks yourself, Virginia?"
Virginia instantly bridled, and looked the picture of injured
innocence.
"Certainly not!" she retorted. "Do you think that I would talk about
such a delicate matter before others?"
"Oh no; I suppose not. But you could look wise and foolish at the same
time when Maxwell's name was mentioned, with a coy and kittenish air
which would suggest more than ten volumes of Mary Jane Holmes."
"You are not very sympathetic, Mrs. Burke, when I am in deep trouble.
I want your help, not ridicule and abuse."
"Well, I am sorry for you, Virginia, in more ways than one. But really
I'd like to know what reason you have to think that Donald Maxwell was
ever in love with you; I suppose that's what you mean."
Virginia blushed deeply, as became a gentle maiden of her tender
years, and replied:
"Oh, it is not a question of things which one can easily define. Love
is vocal without words, you know."
"Hm! You don't mean that he made love to you and proposed to you
through a phonograph? You know I had some sort of idea that love that
was all wool, and a yard wide, and meant business, usually got vocal
at times."
"But Mr. Maxwell and I were thrown together in such an intimate way in
parish work, you know."
"Which did the throwing?"
"You don't for one moment suppose that I would intrude myself, or
press myself on his attention, do you?"
"Oh my gracious, no! He is not the kind of a man to be easily
impressed. He may have seen a girl or two before he met you; of course
I mean just incidentally, as it were. Now, Virginia Bascom, allow me
to ask you one or two plain questions. Did he ever ask you to marry
him?"
"No, not in so many words."
"Did he ever give you any plain indication that he wanted to marry
you? Did he ever play the mandolin under your window at midnight? Did
he ever steal one of your gloves, or beg for a rose out of your
bouquet, or turn the gas out when he called?"
"No, but one night he sat on the sofa with me and told me that I was a
great assistance to him in his parish work, and that he felt greatly
indebted to me."
"Hm! That's certainly rather pronounced, isn't it? Did you call your
father, or rise hastily and leave the room, or what did you do?"
"Well, of course it was not a proposal, but the way he did it was very
suggestive, and calculated to give a wrong impression, especially as
he had his arm on the back of the sofa behind me."
"Maybe he was makin' love to the sofa. Didn't you know that Donald
Maxwell was engaged to be married before he ever set foot in
Durford?"
"Good gracious, no! What are you talking about?"
"Well, he certainly was, for keeps."
"Then he had no business to pose as a free man, if he were engaged. It
is dreadful to have to lose faith in one's rector. It is next to
losing faith in--in----"
"The milk-man. Yes, I quite agree with you. But you see I don't recall
that Donald Maxwell did any posing. He simply kept quiet about his own
affairs--though I do think that it would have been better to let
people know that he was engaged, from the start. However, he may have
concluded his private affairs were his own business. I know that's
very stupid; but some people will persist in doin' it, in spite of all
you can say to 'em. Perhaps it never occurred to him that he would be
expected to marry anyone living in a little sawed-off settlement like
this."
"There's no use in abusing your native village; and"--her voice
quavered on the verge of tears--"I think you are very unsympathetic."
She buried her nose in her handkerchief.
Mrs. Burke gazed sternly at Virginia for a full minute and then
inquired:
"Well, do you want to know why? You started with just foolishness, but
you've ended up with meanness, Virginia Bascom. You've taken your
revenge on people who've done you nothin' but kindness. I know pretty
well who it was that suggested to your father that the mortgage on the
rectory should be foreclosed, and the Maxwells turned out of house and
home. He's always been close-fisted, but I've never known him to be
dead ugly and vindictive before.
"Yes. You were behind all this wretched business--and you're sorry for
it, and wish you could undo the unkindness you've done. Now I am goin'
to talk business--better than talkin' sympathy, because it'll make you
feel better when you've done what I tell you. You go and call on Mrs.
Betty immediately, and tell her that you are very grateful to her
husband for saving your father's life, and that money couldn't
possibly pay for the things she and Mr. Maxwell did for him, and that
you're everlastingly indebted to 'em both."
"But--but," wailed the repentant Virginia, "what can I say about the
tent? Pa won't go back on that--not if his life had been saved twice
over."
"Never you mind about that. You do your part of the business, and
leave the rest to the other feller. You can bet your bottom dollar it
won't be the Maxwells that'll raise the question of who turned 'em out
of the rectory."
"I'll go right away, before I weaken. Oh," she cried, as Hepsey put a
strengthening arm about her, "I've been wrong--I know I have. However
shall I make it right again?"
When Virginia arrived at the tent and pulled the bell-cord, Mrs. Betty
pushed apart the curtains and greeted her visitor with the utmost
cordiality.
"Oh, Miss Bascom! I am _so_ glad to see you. Come right in. Donald is
out just now; but he will return presently, and I'm sure will be
delighted to see an old friend. This way, please. Is your father
improving satisfactorily?"
This greeting was so utterly different from what she had expected,
that for the moment she was silent; but when they were seated she
began:
"Mrs. Maxwell, I don't know how to express my gratitude to you for all
you have done for my father. I--I----"
"Then I wouldn't try, Miss Bascom. Don't give the matter a single
thought. We were glad to do what we could for your father, and we made
him as comfortable as we could."
Virginia's heart was quite atrophied, and so with choking voice she
began:
"And I'm afraid that I have not been very civil to you--in fact, I am
sure that I owe you an apology----"
"No, never mind. It's all right now. Suppose you take off your things
and stay to supper with us. Then we can have a real good visit, and
you will see how well we dwellers in tents can live!"
Virginia winced; but for some reason which she could not understand
she found it quite impossible to decline the invitation.
"I'm sure you are very kind, Mrs. Maxwell; but I'm afraid I shall
inconvenience you."
"Oh no, not a bit. Now will you be a real good Samaritan and help me a
little, as I have no maid? You might set the table if you don't mind,
and when Donald comes we shall be ready for him. This is really quite
jolly," she added, bustling about, showing Virginia where to find
things.
"I am afraid," Virginia began with something like a sob in her voice,
"that you are heaping coals of fire on my head."
"Oh no; not when coal is over seven dollars a ton. We couldn't afford
such extravagant hospitality as that. You might arrange those
carnations in the vase if you will, while I attend to the cooking. You
will find the china, and the silver, in that chest. I won't apologize
for the primitive character of our entertainment because you see when
we came down here we stored most of our things in Mrs. Burke's barn.
It is awfully nice to have somebody with me; I am so much alone; you
came just in time to save me from the blues."
When Mrs. Betty disappeared in the "kitchen," and Virginia began the
task assigned her, a very queer and not altogether pleasant sensation
filled her heart. Was it remorse, or penitence, or self-reproach, or
indigestion? She could not be absolutely sure about it, but concluded
that perhaps it was a combination of all four. When Donald returned,
and discovered Virginia trying to decide whether they would need two
spoons or three at each plate, for an instant he was too astonished to
speak; but quickly regaining his easy manner, he welcomed her no less
cordially than Mrs. Betty had done, remarking:
"Well, this is a treat; and so you are going to have supper with us?
That will be a great pleasure."
Virginia almost collapsed in momentary embarrassment, and could think
of nothing better than to ask:
"I am not sure what Mrs. Maxwell is going to have for supper, and I
really don't know whether to place two spoons or three. What would you
advise, Mr. Maxwell?"
Maxwell scowled seriously, rubbed his chin and replied:
"Well, you know, I really can't say; but perhaps it would be on the
safe side to have three spoons in case any emergency might arise,
like a custard, or jelly and whipped cream, or something else which
Betty likes to make as a surprise. Yes, on the whole, I think that
three would be better than two."
When Virginia had placed the spoons, and Maxwell had returned to
assist her, she hesitated a moment and looked at him with tears in her
eyes and began:
"Mr. Maxwell, there is something I must say to you, an acknowledgment
and an apology I must make. I have been so horribly----"
"Now see here, Miss Virginia," the rector replied, "you just forget
it. We are awfully glad to have you here, and we are going to have a
right jolly supper together. Betty's muffins are simply fine, and her
creamed chicken is a dream. Besides, I want to consult you concerning
the new wardrobe I am going to have built in the vestry. You see there
is the question of the drawers, and the shelves, and----"
"Never mind the drawers and the shelves," Mrs. Betty remarked as she
entered with the creamed chicken and the muffins. "You just sit down
before these things get cold, and you can talk business afterwards."
To her utter astonishment Virginia soon found herself eating heartily,
utterly at her ease in the cordial, friendly atmosphere of tent-life,
and when Maxwell took her home later in the evening, she hadn't
apologized or wallowed in an agony of self-reproach. She had only
demanded the recipe for the muffins, and had declared that she was
coming again very soon if Mrs. Betty would only let her.
And last but not least--the rector's polite attention in acting as her
escort home failed to work upon her dramatic temperament with any more
startling effect than to produce a feeling that he was a very good
friend.
In fact, she wondered, as she conned over the events of the evening,
whether she had realized before, all that the word _Friendship_
signified.
[Illustration]