Chapter XVI: 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.