CHAPTER VII

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.