Part 29 (1/2)
”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 grat.i.tude 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.”