Before the year was over Mrs. Betty had become popular with Maxwell's parishioners through her unfailing good-nature, cordiality and persistent optimism. Even Mrs. Nolan, who lived down by the bridge, and made rag carpets, and suffered from chronic dyspepsia, remarked to Mrs. Burke that she thought the parson's wife was very nice "'cause she 'aint a bit better than any of the rest of us,"--which tribute to Mrs. Betty's tact made Mrs. Burke smile and look pleased. All the young men and girls of the parish simply adored her, and it was marvelous how she managed to keep in touch with all the guilds, do her own housework, and learn to know everyone intimately. Hepsey warned her that she was attempting to do too much.
The best parson's wife, she said, "is the one who makes the rest work, while she attends to her own household, and keeps her health. Her business is not to do the work of the parson, but to look after him, keep him well nourished, and cheer him up a little bit when he is tempted to take the next trolley for Timbuctoo."
The retort was so tempting that Mrs. Betty could not help saying:
There's not a person in this town who does so much for others as you do, and who makes so little fuss about it. It's the force of your example that has led me astray, you see.
Hm! Hepsey replied. "I'm glad you called my attention to it. I shall try to break myself of the habit at once."
As for Maxwell, his practical helpfulness in forwarding the social life of the place, without in the least applying that phase of his activities as a lever for spiritual upheavals, and his ready sympathy for and interest in the needs and doings of young and old, irrespective of class or caste, gradualy reaped for him the affection and respect of all sorts and conditions. In fact, the year had been a pleasant one for him, and was marred by only one circumstance, the continued and growing hostility of his Senior Warden, Mr. Bascom. From the first, he had been distinctly unfriendly towards his rector; but soon after Maxwell's marriage, his annoying opposition was quite open and pronounced, and the weight of his personal influence was thrown against every move which Maxwell made towards the development of the parish life and work.
To those more "in the know" than the Maxwells themselves, it was evident that a certain keen aggressiveness evinced by the Senior Warden was foreign to his phlegmatic, brooding character, and it was clear to them that the actively malicious virus was being administered by the disappointed Virginia. That she was plotting punishment, in revenge for wounded amour propre, was clear to the initiated, who were apprehensive of the bomb she was evidently preparing to burst over the unconscious heads of the rector and his wife. But what could her scheme be?
Gradually Mrs. Burke noticed that Betty began to show fatigue and anxiety, and was losing the freshness of her delicate color; while Donald had become silent and reserved, and wore a worried look which was quite unnatural to him. Something was going wrong; of that she felt sure; but observant though she was, she failed to trace the trouble to its source.
Matters came to a crisis one day when Maxwell was informed that some one was waiting to see him in the parlor. The visitor was dressed in very pronounced clothes, and carried himself with a self-assertive swagger. Maxwell had seen him in Bascom's office, and knew who was waiting for him long before he reached the parlor, by the odor of patchouli which penetrated to the hall.
Good morning, Mr. Nelson, said Maxwell. "Did you wish to see me?"
Yes, I did, Mr. Maxwell, and I am sure it is a great pleasure.
The man seated himself comfortably in a large chair, put the tips of his fingers together, and gazed about the room with an expression of pleased patronage.
Very pretty home you have here, he remarked suavely.
Yes, Maxwell replied. "We manage to make ourselves comfortable. Did you wish to see me on business?"
Oh yes, the lawyer replied, "a mere technicality. I represent the firm of Bascom & Nelson, or rather I should say I am Mr. Bascom's legal agent just at present, as I have not yet been admitted as his partner----"
The man stopped, smirked, and evidently relished prolonging his interview with Maxwell, who was getting impatient. Maxwell drew his watch from his pocket, and there was a look in his eyes which made the lawyer proceed:
The fact is, Rector, that I came to see you on a matter of business about the rectory--as Mr. Bascom's agent.
Will you kindly state it?
It concerns the use of this house.
In what way? This is the rectory of the church, and the rental of it is part of my salary.
You are mistaken. Mr. Bascom owns the house, and you are staying here merely on sufferance.
For a moment Maxwell was too astonished to speak; then he began:
Mr. Bascom owns this house? What do you mean? The house is part of the property of the church.
You are mistaken, my friend.
You will kindly not repeat that form of address, and explain what you mean, replied Maxwell heatedly.
Come, come; there's no use in losing your temper, my dear rector, retorted Nelson offensively.
You have just two minutes to explain yourself, sir; and I strongly advise you to improve the opportunity, before I put you out of this house.'
Nelson, like most bullies, was a coward, and evidently concluded that he would take no risks. He continued:
As I said before, Sylvester Bascom practically owns this house. It does not belong to the church property. The Episcopals made a big bluff at buying it years ago, and made a very small payment in cash; Bascom took a mortgage for the rest. The interest was paid regularly for a while, and then payments began to fall off. As you have reason to know, Bascom is a generous and kind-hearted man, who would not for the world inconvenience his rector, and so he has allowed the matter to go by default, until the back interest amounts to a considerable sum. Of course the mortgage is long past due, and as he needs the money, he has commissioned me to see you and inform you that he is about to foreclose, and to ask you to vacate the premises as soon as you conveniently can. I hope that I make myself reasonably clear.
In a perfectly steady voice Maxwell replied:
What you say is clear enough; whether it is true is another matter. I will see Mr. Bascom at once, and ask for his own statement of the case.
I don't think it necessary to see him, as he has expressly authorized me to act for him in the case.
Then I suppose you came her to serve the notice of ejectment on me.
Oh, we won't use such strong language as that. I came here merely to tell you that the house must be vacated soon as possible. Mr. Bascom has gone to New York on business and will not be back for two weeks. Meantime he wishes the house vacated, so that he can rent it to other parties.
When does the Senior Warden propose to eject his rector, if I may be allowed to ask?
Oh, there is no immediate hurry. Any time this week will do.
What does he want for this place?
I believe he expects fifteen dollars a month.
Well, of course that is prohibitive. Tell Mr. Bascom that we will surrender the house on Wednesday, and that we are greatly indebted to him for allowing us to occupy it rent-free for so long a time.
As Donald showed the objectionable visitor out of the house, he caught sight of Hepsey Burke walking towards it. He half hoped she would pass by, but with a glance of suspicion and barely civil greeting to Nelson as he walked away, she came on, and with a friendly nod to Maxwell entered the rectory.
I've just been talkin' to Mrs. Betty for her good, she remarked. "I met her in town, lookin' as peaked as if she'd been fastin' double shifts, and I had a notion to come in and complete the good work on yourself."
Maxwell's worried face told its own story. He was so nonplused by the bolt just dropped from the blue that he could find no words of responsive raillery wherewith to change the subject.
Hepsey led the way to the parlor and seated herself, facing him judicially. In her quick mind the new evidence soon crystallized into proof of her already half-formed suspicions. She came straight to the point.
Is Bascom making you any trouble? If he is, say so, 'cause I happen to have the whip-hand so far as he's concerned. That Nelson's nothin' but a tool of his, and a dull tool at that.
He's an objectionable person, I must say, remarked Maxwell, and hesitated to trust himself further.
Mrs. Burke gazed at Maxwell for some time in silence and then began:
You look about done up--I don't want to be pryin', but I guess you'd better own up. Something's the matter.
I am just worried and anxious, and I suppose I can't help showing it, he replied wearily.
So you're worried, are you. Now don't you get the worried habit; if it makes a start it will grow on you till you find yourself worryin' for fear the moon won't rise. Worryin's like usin' rusty scissors: it sets your mouth awry. You just take things as they come, and when it seems as if everything was goin' to smash and you couldn't help it, put on your overalls and paint a fence, or hammer tacks, or any old thing that comes handy. What has that rascal Bascom been doin'? Excuse me--my diplomacy's of the hammer-and-tongs order; you're not gettin' your salary paid?
For some time Maxwell hesitated and then answered:
Well, I guess I might as well tell you, because you will know all about it anyway in a day or two, and you might as well get a correct version of the affair from me, though I hate awfully to trouble you. The parish owes me two hundred and fifty dollars. I spoke to Reynolds about it several times, but he says that Bascom and several of his intimate friends won't pay their subscriptions promptly, and so he can't pay me. But the shortage in my salary is not the worst of it. Did you know that the rectory was heavily mortgaged, and that Bascom holds the mortgage?
Yes, I knew it; but we paid something down', and the interest's been kept up, and we hoped that if we did that Bascom would be satisfied.
It seems that the interest has not been paid in some time, and the real reason why Nelson called just now was to inform me that as Bascom was about to foreclose we must get out as soon as we could. I told him that we would leave on Wednesday next.
For a moment there was a look on Mrs. Burke's face which Maxwell never had seen before, and which boded ill for Bascom: but she made no immediate reply.
To tell you the truth, she said finally, "I have been afraid of this. That was the only thing that worried me about your gettin' married. But I felt that no good would come from worryin', and that if Bascom was goin' to play you some dirty trick, he'd do it; and now he's done it. What's got into the man, all of a sudden? He's a skinflint--always closer than hair to a dog's back; but I don't believe I've ever known him do somethin' downright ugly, like this."
Oh, I know well enough, remarked Donald. "If I had been aware of how matters stood about the rectory, I should have acted differently. I wrote him a pretty stiff letter a day or two ago, calling upon him, as Senior Warden, to use his influence to fulfill the contract with me, and get the arrears of my salary paid up. I suppose he had thought I would just get out of the place if my salary was held back--and he's wanted to get rid of me for some time. Now, he's taken this other means of ejecting me not only from his house but from the town itself. He knows I can't afford to pay the rent out of my salary--let alone out of half of it!" He laughed rather bitterly.
He'll be singing a different tune, before I've done with him, said Hepsey. "Now you leave this to me--I'll have a twitch on old Bascom's nose that'll make him think of something else than ejecting his rector. I'll go and visit with him a little this afternoon."
But Nelson said that he was in New York.
I know better than that, snorted Hepsey. "But I guess he'll want to go there, and stay the winter there too, maybe, when I've had my say. No sir--I'm goin' to take my knittin' up to his office, and sit awhile; and if he doesn't have the time of his life it won't be my fault."
She turned to leave the room, with a belligerent swing of her shoulders.
Mrs. Burke, said Maxwell gently, "you are kindness itself; but I don't want you to do this--at least not yet. I want to fight this thing through myself, and rather to shame Bascom into doing the right thing than force him to do it--even if the latter were possible. I must think things out a bit. I shall want your help--we always do, Betty and I."
I don't know but you're right; but if your plan don't work, remember mine will. Well, Mrs. Betty'll be coming in soon, and I'll leave you. Meantime I shall just go home and load my guns: I'm out for Bascom's hide, sooner or later.
When Betty returned, and Donald told her the happenings of the morning, the clouds dispersed somewhat, and before long the dictum that "there is humor in all things"--even in ejection from house and home--seemed proven true. After lunch they sat in Donald's den, and were laughingly suggesting every kind of habitat, possible and impossible, from purchasing and fitting up the iceman's covered wagon and perambulating round the town, to taking a store and increasing their income by purveying Betty's tempting preserves and confections.
Their consultation was interrupted by the arrival of Nickey, armed with a Boy Scouts' "Manual."
Gee! Mr. Maxwell: Uncle Jonathan Jackson's all right; I'll never do another thing to guy him. He's loaned us his tent for our Boy Scouts' corpse, and I've been studyin' out how to pitch it proper, so I can show the kids the ropes; but----
Donald! cried Betty. "The very thing--let's camp out on the church lot."
By Jinks! exclaimed Maxwell, unclerically. "We'll have that tent up this very afternoon--if Nickey will lend it to us, second hand, and get his men together."
Nickey flushed with delight. "You betcher life I will," he shouted excitedly. "Is it for a revival stunt? You 'aint goin' to live there, are you?"
That's just what we are going to do, if Jonathan and you'll lend us the tent for a few months. Mr. Bascom wants to let the rectory to some other tenants, and we've got to find somewhere else to lay our heads. Why, it's the very way! There's not a thing against it, that I can see. Let's go and see the tent, and consult Mrs. Burke. Come along, both of you.
And off they hurried, like three children bent on a new game. It was soon arranged, and Hepsey rose to the occasion with her usual vim. To her and Nickey the transportation of the tent was consigned, while Maxwell went off to purchase the necessary boarding for a floor, and Mrs. Betty returned to the rectory to pack up their belongings.
We'll have to occupy our new quarters to-night, said Maxwell, "or our friend the enemy may raid the church lot in the night, and vanish with tent and all."
An hour or so later, when Maxwell arrived at the church, clad in overalls and riding on a wagon of planks, he found Mrs. Burke and Nickey with a contingent of stalwarts awaiting him. There was a heap of canvas and some coils of rope lying on the ground near by. Hepsey greeted him with a smile from under the shade of her sun-bonnet.
You seem ready for business, even if you don't look a little bit like the Archbishop of Canterbury in that rig, she remarked. "I'm afraid there'll be an awful scandal in the parish if you go wanderin' around dressed like a carpenter; but it can't be helped; and if the Bishop excommunicates you, I'll give you a job on the farm."
I don't mind about the looks of it; but I suppose the vestry will have something to say about our camping on church property.
That needn't worry you. Maybe it'll bring 'em to their senses, and maybe, they'll be ashamed when they see their parson driven out of his house and havin' to live in a tent,--though I 'aint holdin' out much hope of that, to you. Folks that are the most religious are usually the hardest to shame. I always said, financially speakin', that preachin' wasn't a sound business. It's all give and no get; but this is the first time I've ever heard of a parish wanting a parson to preach without eating and to sleep without a roof over his head. Most of us seem to forget that rectors are human being like the rest of us. If religion is worth havin', it's worth payin' for.
The planking was soon laid, and the erection of the tent was left to Nickey's captaining--all hands assisting. With his manual in one hand he laid it out, rope by rope, poles in position, and each helper at his place. Then at a word, up it soared, with a "bravo" from the puzzled onlookers.
We want a poet here, laughed Maxwell. "Longfellow's 'Building of the Ship,' or Ralph Connor's 'Building the Barn' aren't a circumstance to Nickey's 'Pitching the Parson's Tent.'"
It was next divided off into three convenient rooms, for sleeping, eating and cooking--and Hepsey, with three scouts, having driven across to the old rectory while the finishing touches were being put to the new, she and her military escort soon returned with Mrs. Betty, and a load of furniture and other belongings.
Why, this is perfect! cried Betty. "The only thing lacking to complete the illusion is a trout brook in the front yard, and the smell of pines and the damp mossy earth of the forests. We'll wear our old clothes, and have a bonfire at night, and roast potatoes and corn in the hot coals, and have the most beautiful time imaginable."
The town visitors who still lingered on the scene were received cordially by Maxwell and Mrs. Betty, who seemed to be in rather high spirits; but when the visitors made any inquiries concerning structural matters they were politely referred to Nickey Burke for any information they desired, as he had assumed official management of the work.
Just before the various helpers left at six o'clock, smoke began to issue from the little stove-pipe sticking out through the canvas of the rear of the tent, and Mrs. Betty, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her cooking apron on, came out to watch it with all the pride of a good housekeeper.
Isn't it jolly, Mrs. Burke, she exclaimed. "I was afraid that it would not draw, but it really does, you see. This will be more fun than a month at the seashore; and to-morrow we are going to have you and Nickey dine with us in the tent; so don't make any other engagement. Don't forget."
By noon of the following day everybody in town knew that the Maxwells had been dispossessed, and were camping on the church lot; and before night most of the women and a few of the men had called to satisfy their curiosity, and to express their sympathy with the rector and his wife, who, however, seemed to be quite comfortable and happy in their new quarters. On the other hand, some of the vestry hinted strongly that tents could not be put up on church property without their formal permission, and a few of the more pious suggested that it was little short of sacrilege thus to violate the sanctity of a consecrated place. Nickey had painted a large sign with the word RECTORY on it, in truly rustic lettering, and had hung it at the entrance of the tent. The Editor of the Durford Daily Bugle appeared with the village photographer, and after an interview with Maxwell requested him and his wife to pose for a picture in front of the tent. This they declined with thanks; but a half-column article giving a sensational account of the affair appeared in the next issue of the paper, headed by a half-tone picture of the tent and the church. Public sentiment ran strongly against Bascom, to whom rumor quickly awarded the onus of the incident. In reply to offers of hospitality, Maxwell and Mrs. Betty insisted that they were very comfortable for the time being, and were not going to move or make any plans for the immediate future. The morning of the fourth day, Maxwell announced to Mrs. Betty that he had a strong presentiment that Bascom would soon make another move in the game, and he was not surprised when he saw Nelson approaching.
Thank goodness we are in the open air, this time, Maxwell remarked to Betty as he caught sight of the visitor. "I'll talk to him outside--and perhaps you'd better shut the door and keep out the language. I may have to express myself more forcibly than politely."
Nelson began:
I am sorry to have to intrude upon you again, Mr. Maxwell, but I must inform you that you will have to vacant that tent and find lodgings elsewhere.
Why, pray? This tent is my property for as long as I require it.
Ah! But you see it has been put up on the land that belongs to the church, and you have no title to use the land, you know, for private purposes.
Pardon me, Maxwell replied, "but while the legal title to all church property is held by the wardens and vestry collectively, the freehold use of the church building and grounds is held by the rector for the purpose of the exercise of his office as rector. No church property is injured by this tent. This lot was originally purchased for a rectory. To all intents and purposes (excuse me; I am not punning) this tent is the rectory pro tem. The use of a rectory was offered me as part of the original agreement when I accepted the call to come to this parish."
Hm! You speak quite as if you belonged to the legal profession yourself, Mr. Maxwell. However, I am afraid that you will have to get off the lot just the same. You must remember that I am simply carrying out Mr. Bascom's instructions.
Very well; please give my compliments to Mr. Bascom and tell him that he is welcome to come here and put me out as soon as he thinks best. Moreover, you might remind him that he is not an autocrat, and that he cannot take any legal action in the matter without a formal meeting of the vestry, which I will call and at which I will preside. He can appeal to the Bishop if he sees fit.
Then I understand that you propose to stay where you are, in defiance of Mr. Bascom's orders?
I most certainly do. It is well known that Mr. Bascom has successfully intimidated every one of my predecessors; but he has met his match for once. I shall not budge from this tent until I see fit.
Well, I should be very sorry to see you forcibly ejected.
Don't waste any sympathy on me, sir. If Mr. Bascom attempts to molest me, I shall take the matter to the courts and sue him for damages.
Your language is somewhat forcible, considering that you are supposed to be his pastor and spiritual advisor.
Very well; tell Mr. Bascom that as his spiritual advisor I strongly suggest that his spiritual condition will not be much improved by attempting to molest us here.
But to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Maxwell, he can force you to leave, by stopping the payment of your salary, even if he does not eject you by force.
I rather think not. Until he can bring specific charges against me, he is liable for the fulfillment of our original contract, in his writing. Moreover, I may have more friends in the parish than he imagines.
Nelson was visibly disturbed by the rector's firm hold on the situation.
But, he stuttered, "Mr. Bascom is the richest man in the parish, and his influence is strong. You will find that everyone defers to his judgment as a matter of course."
All right; then let me add, for your own information, that I can earn my living honestly in this town and take care of myself without Mr. Bascom's assistance, if necessary; and do my parish work at the same time. I have two muscular arms, and if it comes down to earning a livelihood, independent of my salary, I can work on the state road hauling stone. Williamson told me yesterday he was looking for men.
I can scarcely think that the parishioners would hold with their rector working like a common laborer, Mr. Maxwell, admonished Nelson.
We are all 'common,' in the right sense, Mr. Nelson. My view is that work of any kind is always honorable when necessary, except in the eyes of the ignorant. If Mr. Bascom is mortified to have me earn my living by manual labor, when he is not ashamed to repudiate a contract, and try to force me out of the parish by a process of slow starvation, his sense of fitness equals his standard of honor.
Well, I am sure that I do not know what I can do.
Do you want me to tell you?
If it will relieve your feelings, Nelson drawled insolently.
Then get out of this place and stay out. If you return again for any purpose whatever I am afraid it is I who will have to eject you. We will not argue the matter again.
Well, I regret this unfortunate encounter, and to have been forced to listen to the unguarded vituperation of my rector. With which retort he departed.
Soon after Nelson had left, Mrs. Burke called in, and Betty gave her a highly amusing and somewhat colored version of the interview.
You know, I think that our theological seminaries don't teach budding parsons all they ought to, by any means, she concluded.
I quite agree with you, Betty dear; and I thank my stars for college athletics, laughed Maxwell, squaring up to the tent-pole.
What did I tell you, reminded Hepsey, "when you had all those books up in your room at my place. It's just as important for a country parson to know how to make a wiped-joint or run a chicken farm or pull teeth, as it is to study church history and theology. A parson's got to live somehow, and a trade school ought to be attached to every seminary, according to my way of thinking! St. Paul made tents, and wasn't a bit ashamed of it. Well I'm mighty glad that Bascom has got come up with for once. Don't you give in, and it will be my turn to make the next move, if this don't bring him to his senses. You just wait and see."
Hepsey had been so busy with helping the Maxwells that for some time no opportunity had occurred for Jonathan to press his ardent suit. Since his first attempt and its abrupt termination, he had been somewhat bewildered; he had failed to decide whether he was an engaged man open to congratulations, or a rejected suitor to be condoled with. He tried to recall exactly what she had said. As near as he could recollect, it was: "I'll think it over, and perhaps some day--" Then he had committed the indiscretion of grasping her hand, causing her to drop her stitches before she had ended what she was going to say. He could have sworn at himself to think that it was all his fault that she had stopped just at the critical moment, when she might have committed herself and given him some real encouragement. But he consoled himself by the thought that she had evidently taken him seriously at last; and so to the "perhaps some day" he added, in imagination, the words "I will take you"; and this seemed reasonable.
The matter was more difficult from the very fact that they had been on such intimate terms for such a long time, and she had never hitherto given him any reason to think that she cared for him other than as a good neighbor and a friend. Ever since the death of his wife, she seemed to feel that he had been left an orphan in a cold and unsympathetic world, and that it was her duty to look after him much as she would a child. She was in the habit of walking over whenever she pleased and giving directions to Mary McGuire in regard to matters which she thought needed attention in his house. And all this had been done in the most open and matter-of-fact way, so that the most accomplished gossip in Durford never accused her of making matrimonial advances to the lonesome widower. Even Jonathan himself had been clever enough to see that she regarded him much as she would an overgrown boy, and had always accepted her many attentions without misinterpreting them. She was a born manager, and she managed him; that was all. Nothing could be more unsentimental than the way in which she would make him take off his coat during a friendly call, and let her sponge and press it for him; or the imperative fashion in which she sent him to the barber's to have his beard trimmed. How could a man make love to a woman after she had acted like this?
But he reminded himself that if he was ever to win her he must begin to carry out the advice outlined by Mrs. Betty; and so the apparently unsuspecting Hepsey would find on her side porch in the morning some specially fine corn which had been placed there after dark without the name of the donor. Once a fine melon was accompanied by a bottle of perfumery; and again a basket of peaches had secreted in its center a package of toilet soap "strong enough to kill the grass," as Hepsey remarked as she sniffed at it. Finally matters reached a climax when a bushel of potatoes arrived on the scene in the early dawn, and with it a canary bird in a tin cage. When Hepsey saw Jonathan later, she remarked casually that she "guessed she'd keep the potatoes; but she didn't need a canary bird any more than a turtle needs a tooth-pick; and he had better take it away and get his money back."
However, Jonathan never allowed her occasional rebuffs to discourage him or stop his attentions. He kept a close watch on all Hepsey's domestic interests, and if there were any small repairs to be made at Thunder Cliff, a hole in the roof to be mended, or the bricks on the top of the chimney to be relaid, or the conductor pipe to be readjusted, Jonathan was on the spot. Then Jonathan would receive in return a layer cake with chopped walnuts in the filling, and would accept it in the same matter-of-fact way in which Hepsey permitted his services as general caretaker.
This give-and-take business went on for some time. At last it occurred to him that Mrs. Burke's front porch ought to be painted, and he conceived the notion of doing the work without her knowledge, as a pleasant surprise to her. He waited a long time for some day when she should be going over to shop at Martin's Junction,--when Nickey usually managed to be taken along,--so that he could do the work unobserved. Meantime, he collected from the hardware store various cards with samples of different colors on them. These he would combine and re-combine at his leisure, in the effort to decide just what colors would harmonize. He finally decided that a rather dark blue for the body work would go quite well, with a bright magenta for the trimmings, and laid in a stock of paint and brushes, and possessed his soul in patience.
So one afternoon, arriving home burdened with the spoils of Martin's Junction, great was Mrs. Burke's astonishment and wrath when she discovered the porch resplendent in dark blue and magenta.
Sakes alive! Have I got to live inside of that, she snorted. "Why, it's the worst lookin' thing I ever saw. If I don't settle him," she added, "--paintin' my porch as if it belonged to him--and me as well," she added ambiguously. And, catching up her sun-bonnet, she hastened over to her neighbor's and inquired for Jonathan. "Sure, he's gone to Martin's Junction to see his brother, Mrs. Burke. He said he'd stay over night, and I needn't come in again till to-morrow dinner-time," Mary McGuire replied.
Hepsey hastened home, and gathering all the rags she could find, she summoned Nickey and Mullen, one of the men from the farm, and they worked with turpentine for nearly two hours, cleaning off the fresh paint from the porch. Then she sent Nickey down to the hardware store for some light gray paint and some vivid scarlet paint, and a bit of dryer. It did not take very long to repaint her porch gray--every trace of the blue and the magenta having been removed by the vigorous efforts of the three.
When it was finished, she opened the can of scarlet, and pouring in a large quantity of dryer she sent Nickey over to see if Mary McGuire had gone home. All three set to work that evening to paint the porch in front of Jonathan's house. At first Mullen protested anxiously that it was none of his business to be painting another man's porch, but Mrs. Burke gave him a look which changed his convictions; so he and Nickey proceeded gleefully to fulfill their appointed task, while she got supper.
When the work was quite finished. Hepsey went over to inspect it, and remarked thoughtfully to herself: "I should think that a half pint of dryer might be able to get in considerable work before to-morrow noon. I hope Jonathan'll like scarlet. To be sure it does look rather strikin' on a white house; but then variety helps to relieve the monotony of a dead alive town like Durford; and if he don't like it plain, he can trim it green. I'll teach him to come paintin' my house without so much as a by-your-leave, or with-your-leave, lettin' the whole place think things."
As it happened, Jonathan returned late that night to Durford--quite too late to see the transformation of his own front porch, and since he entered by the side door as usual, he did not even smell the new paint. The next morning he sauntered over to Thunder Cliff, all agog for his reward, and Mrs. Burke greeted him at her side door, smiling sweetly.
Good mornin', Jonathan. It was awful good of you to paint my front porch. It has needed paintin' for some time now, but I never seemed to get around to it.
Don't mention it, Hepsey, Jonathan replied affably. "Don't mention it. You're always doin' somethin' for me, and it's a pity if I can't do a little thing like that for you once in a while."
Hepsey had strolled round to the front, as if to admire his work, Jonathan following. Suddenly he came to a halt; his jaw dropped, and he stared as if he had gone out of his senses.
Such a lovely color; gray just suits the house, you know, Mrs. Burke observed. "You certainly ought to have been an artist, Jonathan. Any man with such an eye for color ought not to be wastin' his time on a farm."
Jonathan still gazed at the porch in amazement, blinked hard, wiped his eyes and his glasses with his handkerchief, and looked again.
What's the matter with you? Have you a headache? Hepsey inquired solicitously.
No, I haven't got no headache; but when I left that porch yesterday noon it was blue, and now I'm blamed if it don't seem gray. Does it look gray-like to you, Hepsey?
Why certainly! What's that you say? Do you say you painted it blue? That certainly's mighty queer. But then you know some kinds of paint fade--some kinds do! She nodded, looking suspiciously at the work.
Fade! Jonathan sneered. "Paints don't fade by moonlight in one night. That isn't no faded blue. It's just plain gray. I must be goin' color blind, or something."
It looks gray to me, and I'm glad it is gray, so don't you worry about it, Jonathan. Blue would be somethin' awful on the front of a white house, you know.
Well, continued the bewildered Junior Warden, "I'm blessed if this isn't the queerest thing I ever see in all my born days. If I catch the fellow that sold me that paint, I'll make it lively for him or my name isn't Jackson."
Oh, I wouldn't do anything like that! What difference does it make, so long as I like the color myself; it's my house. I should have been very much put out if you'd painted it blue; yes, I should.
But I don't like to be cheated down at the store; and I won't, by gum! They said it was best quality paint! I'll go down to Crosscut's and see about this business, right now. I've traded with him nigh on twenty years, and he don't bamboozle me that way.
Hepsey turned away choking with laughter, and retreated to her kitchen.
Jonathan started back towards his house to get his hat and coat, and then for the first time he caught sight of his own porch, done in flaming scarlet, which fairly seemed to radiate heat in the brilliant sunlight. He stood motionless for nearly a minute, paralyzed. Then the color began to rise in his neck and face as he muttered under his breath:
Hm! I'm on to the whole business now. I ought to have known that Hepsey would get the best of me. I guess I won't go down to Crosscut's after all.
Then he walked up to the porch and touched the scarlet paint with his finger and remarked:
Set harder than a rock, by gum! She must have used a whole lot of dryer. I'll get even with her for this. See if I don't.
In the afternoon Jonathan brought over some fine apples and presented them to Hepsey, who was knitting on her side porch. She thanked him for the gift, and the conversation drifted from one thing to another while she waited for the expected outburst of reproach which she knew would come sooner or later. But curiously enough, Jonathan was more cheery and cordial than usual, and made no allusion whatever to the scarlet porch, which was conspicuously visible from where they sat. Again and again Hepsey led the conversation around to the point where it seemed as if he must break covert, but he remained oblivious, and changed the subject readily. Not a word on the subject passed his lips that afternoon.
Then, from day to day the neighbors called and inquired of her if Jackson had gone off his head, or what was the matter. His flaming porch outraged Durford's sense of decency. She was at her wits end to answer, without actually lying or compromising herself; so the only thing she said was that she had noticed that he had been acting a bit peculiar lately, now they mentioned it. As time went on, the scarlet porch became the talk of the town. It was duly discussed at the sewing society, and the reading club, and the general sentiment was practically unanimous that Jackson must be suffering from incipient cataract or senile dementia, and needed a guardian. Even Mary McGuire remarked to Mrs. Burke that she was afraid "that there front porch would sure set the house on fire, if it wasn't put out before." Everybody agreed that if his wife had lived, the thing never could have happened.
Meantime, Jonathan went about his daily business, serene and happy, apparently oblivious of the fact that there was anything unusual in the decoration of his house. When his friends began to chaff him about the porch he seemed surprised, and guessed it was his privilege to paint his house any color he had a mind to, and there was no law ag'in' it; it was nobody's business but his own. Tastes in color differed, and there was no reason in the world why all houses should be painted alike. He liked variety himself, and nobody could say that scarlet wasn't a real cheerful color on a white house.
Occasionally people who were driving by stopped to contemplate the porch; and the Durford Daily Bugle devoted a long facetious paragraph to the matter. All of which Mrs. Burke knew very well, and it was having its effect on her nerves. The porch was the most conspicuous object in view from Hepsey's sitting-room windows, and every time she entered the room she found herself looking at the flaming terror with increasing exasperation. Verily, if Jonathan wanted revenge he was getting far more than he knew: the biter was badly bit. The matter came to a crisis one day, when Jonathan concluded a discussion with Mrs. Burke about the pasture fence. She burst out abruptly:
Say, Jonathan Jackson, why in the name of conscience don't you paint your porch a Christian color? It's simply awful, and I'm not goin' to sit in my house and have to look at it all winter.
Jonathan did not seem greatly stirred, and replied in an absent-minded way:
Why don't you move your sittin' room over to the other side of the house, Hepsey? Then you wouldn't have to see it. Don't you like scarlet?
No, I don't like it, and if you don't paint it out, I will.
Don't do nothin' rash, Hepsey. You know sometimes colors fade in the moonlight--some colors, that is. Maybe that scarlet porch'll turn to a light gray if you let it alone.
Mrs. Burke could stand it no longer; so, laying down her work she exploded her pent-up wrath:
Jonathan Jackson, if that paint isn't gone before to-morrow, I'll come over and paint it myself.
Oh, that isn't necessary, Hepsey. And it might set people talkin'. But if you won't move your sittin'-room to the other side of your own house, why don't you move it over to my house? You wouldn't see so much of the red paint then.
Hepsey snorted and spluttered in baffled rage.
Now, now, Hepsey, soothed Jonathan, "if that don't suit you, I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll paint it over myself on one condition!"
And what's that, I'd like to know?
That you'll marry me, snapped Jonathan hungrily.
Instead of resenting such bold tactics on the part of her suitor, Mrs. Burke gazed at him a long time with a rather discouraged look on her face.
Land sakes! she exclaimed at last with assumed weariness and a whimsical smile, "I didn't know I'd ever come to this; but I guess I'll have to marry you to keep you from makin' another kind of fool of yourself; widowers are such helpless mortals, and you certainly do need a guardian." She shook her head at him despondently.
Jonathan advanced towards her deliberately, and clinched the matter:
Well, Hepsey, seein' that we're engaged----
Engaged? What do you mean? Get away, you---- She rose from her chair in a hurry.
Now Hepsey, a bargain's a bargain: you just said you'd have to marry me, and I guess the sooner you do it and have it over with, the better. So, seein' that we are engaged to be married, as I was about to remark when you interrupted me.... Relentlessly he approached her once more. She retreated a step or two.
Well! Sakes alive, Jonathan! Whatever's come over you to make you so masterful. Well, yes then--I suppose a bargain's a bargain, all right. But before your side of it's paid up you've got to go right over and paint that porch of yours a respectable color.
So, for once, Hepsey's strategy had been manipulated to her own defeat: Jonathan went off to town with flying colors, and bought himself a can of pure white paint.
It was eleven o'clock at night. Mrs. Betty had retired, while her husband was still struggling to finish a sermon on the importance of foreign missions. Ordinarily, the work would have been congenial and easy for him, because he was an enthusiast in the matter of missionary work: but now for some reason his thoughts were confused; his enthusiasm was lacking, and his pen dragged. He tried hard to pull himself together, but over and over again the question kept repeating itself in his tired brain: Why should the Church support foreign missions, while she lets her hard working clergy at home suffer and half starve in their old age, and even fails to give them decent support while they are working in their prime? Why should a doctor reach his highest professional value at seventy, and a parson be past the "dead-line" at forty-five? Here he was, subject to the caprice and ill-will of a sour and miserly Senior Warden, and a cowed and at least partially "bossed" vestry--and he, the rector, with no practical power of appeal for the enforcement of his legal contract. It was only thanks to Jonathan Jackson, the Junior Warden, that any revenue at all reached him; for Bascom had used every grain of influence he possessed to reduce or stop Maxwell's salary. Mrs. Betty, plucky and cheery though she was, already showed the results of the weary struggle: it was not the work that took the color from her cheeks and the freshness from her face, but the worry incidental to causes which, in any other calling in life but his, would be removable.
Already he had parted with a considerable number of his books to eke out, and meet the many calls upon him--urgent and insistent calls. It became abundantly clear, as his mind strayed from the manuscript before him and turned to their immediate situation, that he was already forced to choose between two alternatives: either he must give up, and own himself and all the better influences in the place beaten by Bascom and his satellites; or he must find some means of augmenting his means of living, without allowing his time and energy to be monopolized to the neglect of essential parish and church duties.
As he thought on these things, somehow his enthusiasm for foreign missions ebbed away, and left him desperately tired and worried. He made several abortive attempts to put some fire into his missionary plea, but it was useless; and he was about to give up when he heard Mrs. Betty's gentle voice inquiring from the next room:
May I come in? Haven't you finished that wretched old missionary sermon yet?
No, dear; but why aren't you asleep?
I have been anxious about you. You are worn out and you need your rest. Now just let the heathen rage, and go to bed.
Maxwell made no reply, but picked at his manuscript aimlessly with his pen. Betty looked into his face, and then the whole stress of the situation pierced her; and sitting down by his side she dropped her head on his shoulder and with one arm around his neck stroked his cheek with her fingers. For a few moments neither of them spoke; and then Maxwell said quietly:
Betty, love, I am going to work.
But Donny, you are one of the hardest working men in this town. What do you mean?
Oh, I mean that I am going to find secular work, the work of a day laborer, if necessary. Matters have come to a crisis, and I simply cannot stand this sort of thing any longer. If I were alone I might get along; but I have you, sweetheart, and----
Maxwell stopped suddenly, and the brave little woman at his side said:
Yes, I know all about it, Donald, and I think you are fully justified in doing anything you think best.
And you wouldn't feel ashamed of me if I handled a shovel or dug in the street?
I'd be the proudest woman in the town, Donny; you are just your fine dear self, whatever you do; and if you have the courage to put your pride in your pocket and work in overalls, that would make you all the finer to me. Manual work would relieve the tension of your nerves. You seem to be in fairly good physical condition. Don't you worry one bit about me. I am going to wash some lace curtains for Mrs. Roscoe-Jones, and that will keep me out of mischief. Now, if you will allow me, I am going to tear up that sermon on foreign missions, and start a little home mission of my own by sending you to bed.
The second morning after this ruthless destruction of Maxwell's eloquent plea for the mission at Bankolulu, Danny Dolan drove up to the tent-rectory at half-past six, and Maxwell emerged and jumped up by Danny's side, dressed in a rather soiled suit of overalls: Danny was a teamster, a good looking youth, and a devoted friend of Maxwell's since the parson had taken care of him and his family through an attack of malignant diphtheria. But while Danny was a most loyal friend, he was not of the emotional type, and so, when Maxwell had seated himself comfortably and had lighted his briar pipe, Danny started down the road at a vigorous pace, grinning broadly at Maxwell's attire as he remarked:
So you're really goin' to work like the rest of us, I reckon.
Right you are, Danny--four days a week, anyhow. Don't I look like the real thing?
Sure you do; only you better not shave every day, and you'll have to get your hands dirty before you can fool anybody, and maybe your face'll give you away even then. Be you comfortable in them clothes?
Sure thing; I'm never so contented as I am in working clothes.
That's all right. You're the stuff. But how about the proper old maids in the parish who ogle and dance around you; they won't cotton to your clothes a little bit. They'll think you're degradin' of yourself and disgracin' of the parish. Here you be ridin' on a stone wagon, and you don't look a bit better than me, if I do say it.
I'm afraid they'll have to survive the shock somehow or other; a man has to dress according to his work.
Hm! Now there's that there Mrs. Roscoe-Jones and Miss Bascom; I'll bet if they saw you in that rig they'd throw a fit.
Oh no; it isn't as bad as that, Danny.
They'd think you'd been disgraced for life, to become a laborin' man, you bet.
A what?
A laborin' man.
Then you think that a parson doesn't labor?
Well, I always thought that bein' a parson was a dead easy job, and a nice clean job too.
Danny, Maxwell inquired after a momentary silence, "don't you suppose that a man labors with his brain as well as with his muscles? And sometimes a parson labors with his heart, and that is the hardest kind of work a man ever does. The man who is most of a laboring man is the man who labors with every power and faculty he possesses."
Well, now, I guess that may be right, if you look at it that way.
Yes; you speak of a laboring man, and you mean a man who uses his muscles and lets his brain and his feelings die of starvation. To try to help some one you're fond of, who is going to the bad, is the most nerve-racking and exhausting work which any man can possibly do.
Hm! you always was a dum queer parson, more like the rest of us, somehow. And you don't hold that you're disgracin' your profession ridin' with me, and shovelin' gravel?
I don't seem to be worrying much about it, do I?
No, he agreed--and added, "and I'm dum sure I would like a day off now and then from preachin' and callin' on old maids, if I was you. But there's times I might be willin' for to let you take my work for yours."
Now see here, if you'll do my work for a few days, I'll do yours.
Well, what'd I have to do? I 'aint makin' any contract without specifications.
Well, suppose we say you do my work Saturday and Sunday. That means you finish up two sermons, which must be original and interesting when you are preaching to the same set of people about a hundred and fifty times a year. Then you must go and see a woman who is always complaining, and listen to her woes for three-quarters of an hour. Then you must go and see what you can do for Tom Bradsaw, who is dying of tuberculosis. Then you must conduct a choir rehearsal--not always the highest gratification of a musical ear. Sunday, you must conduct four services and try to rouse a handful of people, who stare at you from the back pews, to some higher ideals of life and common decency, Then----
Oh, heavens, man! Sure, an' that's enough; I stick to the stone wagon every time.
You'd be a fool if you didn't, replied Maxwell straightly. "Then again you get your pay promptly every Saturday night. I never know when I am going to get mine."
You don't? Begad, and I wouldn't work for anybody if I wasn't paid prompt. I'd sue the Bishop or the Pope, or somebody.
Parsons don't sue: it's considered improper.
Well, well, muttered the astonished Danny. "Be you sure you can shovel stone then?" he asked.
Maxwell unbuttoned his wristband, rolled up his sleeve. "If I can't, I'll know the reason why," he remarked tersely.
That's the stuff, laughed Danny, looking at Maxwell's muscle. "I guess I don't want to meet you out walkin' after dark without a gun. But say, why don't you swat the Bishop one, and get your pay?"
The Bishop isn't responsible.
Well, I'll bet I know who is, dang him; and I'd like to swat him one for you, the miserable old bag-of-bones.
Never you mind, Danny; I can take care of myself.
Sure you can, and I guess you're a laborin' man all right, even if you don't belong to the Union. Why don't you get up a parson's Union and go on strike? By Jove! I would. Let your parish go to----
Danny, don't you think it looks like rain?
No, neither do you; but here we are at the stone pile. My! but how the fellers will grin when they see a tenderfoot like you, and a parson at that, shovelin' stone. But they won't think any the less of you for it, mind you, he reassured his companion.
Maxwell knew most of the men, and greeted them by name, and when he rolled up his sleeves and began work, they quickly saw that he was "no slouch," and that he did not "soldier," or shirk, as many of them did--though sometimes they were inclined to rest on their shovels and chaff him good-naturedly, and ask him if he had his Union card with him.
Shoveling stone is no picnic, as Danny and his fellows would have put it. It is not only the hard, obstructed thrust, thrust of the shovel into the heap of broken stone, and the constant lift and swing of each shovelful into the wagon; it is the slow monotony of repetition of unvarying motion that becomes most irksome to the tyro, and wears down the nervous system of the old hand till his whole being is leveled to the insensibility of a soulless machine.
But, though new to the process itself, Maxwell was not ignorant of its effects; and soon he found himself distracting his attention from the strain of the muscular tension by fitting the action to the rhythm of some old sailor's chanteys he had learned at college. The effect amused the men; and then as some of them caught the beat, and others joined in, soon the whole gang was ringing the changes on the simple airs, and found it a rousing and cheerful diversion from the monotony of labor.
If a pause came, soon one of them would call out: "Come on, Parson; strike up the hymn."
One by one the wagons were loaded, and driven to the road. After they had filled the last wagon, Danny put on his coat, and he and Maxwell mounted and drove out of the yard.
Where are we going with this? Maxwell inquired.
Down on the state road, first turn to the left.
Why, that must be near Willow Bluff, Mr. Bascom's place, isn't it?
Right opposite. Bascom, he come out yesterday, and said he wouldn't stand for that steam roller snortin' back and forth in front of his house. But Jim Ferris told him he had his orders from Williamson, and he wasn't goin' to be held up by nobody until Williamson told him to stop. Jim isn't any kind of fool.
When they arrived in front of Willow Bluff, they stopped, dismounted, and dumped the crushed stone, and then returned to the stone yard. At noon they camped out on the curb in front of Willow Bluff. After Maxwell had done full justice to the contents of his dinner pail, he stretched himself full length on the grass for a few moments, chatting with his mates in friendly fashion. Then he went over to the roller and assisted the engineer in "oiling up." Being a novice at the business, he managed to get his hands black with oil, and smeared a streak across one cheek, which, while it helped to obscure his identity, did not add to his facial beauty. He was blissfully unconscious of this. About three o'clock Bascom returned from his office, just as Maxwell was dismounting from the wagon after bringing a load. At first Bascom did not recognize the rector, but a second glance brought the awful truth home to his subliminal self, and he stopped and stared at Maxwell, stricken dumb. Maxwell politely touched his hat, and smilingly remarked that it was a fine day. Bascom made no reply at first.
Can it be possible that this is you, Mr. Maxwell? he almost whispered, at last.
It is, to the best of my knowledge and belief.
What in the name of heaven are you working with these men for, if I may ask?
To earn sufficient money to pay my grocer's bill.
Bascom colored hotly, and sputtered:
I consider it a shame and a disgrace to the parish to have our rector in filthy clothes, drawing stone with a lot of ruffians.
Maxwell colored as hotly, and replied:
They are not ruffians, sir; they are honest men, supporting their families in a perfectly legitimate way, giving their labor and--significantly--"receiving their pay for it."
And you, sir, are engaged to work for the parish, as a minister of God.
Unfortunately, I am not being paid by the parish; that is why I am working here. Neither my wife nor myself is going to starve.
You haven't any pride, sir! Bascom fumed, his temper out of control. "We have had many incompetent rectors, but this really surpasses anything. We have never had anyone like you."
Maxwell paused again in his work, and, leaning on his shovel, looked Bascom in the eye:
By which you mean that you have never had anyone who was independent enough to grip the situation in both hands and do exactly what he thought best, independent of your dictation.
I will not converse with you any more. You are insulting.
As the corporation is paying me for my time, I prefer work to conversation.
Bascom strode along the road towards his home. Danny Dolan, who had been a shameless auditor of this conversation, from the other side of the wagon, was beside himself with delight:
Holy Moses! but didn't you give it to the old man. And here be all your adorers from town after comin' to tea at the house, and you lookin' like the stoker of an engine with black grease half an inch thick on your cheek.
Maxwell pulled out his handkerchief, and made an abortive effort to get his face clean.
How is it now, Danny?
Oh, it 'aint nearly as thick in any one place; it's mostly all over your face now. Then Danny laughed irreverently again. "Sure, an' you certainly do look like the real thing now."
Maxwell was raking gravel when the guests for the afternoon tea were passing; and though he did not look up, he fully realized that they had recognized him, from the buzz of talk and the turning of heads.
Danny returned from his safer distance when he saw the coast was clear. Maxwell had a shrewd suspicion that the boy had taken himself off believing it might embarrass Maxwell less if any of the ladies should speak to him.
Did none of 'em know you, then? he asked.
Not one of them spoke; I guess my disguise is pretty complete.
Thank hiven! Danny exclaimed. "Then the crisis is passed for to-day at least, and your reputation is saved; but if you don't get out of this they'll be comin' out again, and then nobody knows what'll happen. Better smear some more oil over the other cheek to cover the last bit of dacency left in you."
At the end of the day's work, Maxwell threw his shovel into Dolan's wagon and jumped up on the seat with him and drove back to town.
Well, said Maxwell's friend, delightedly, "you done a mighty good day's work for a tenderfoot; but you done more with that old Bascom than in all the rest of the day put together. My! but I thought I'd split my sides to see you puttin' him where he belonged, and you lookin' like a coal heaver. But it's a howlin' shame you didn't speak to them women, goin' all rigged up for the party. That would've been the finishin' touch."
He swayed about on his seat, laughing heartily, until they drew up before the rectory, where Mrs. Betty was waiting to greet Maxwell.
Danny touched his cap shyly--but Betty came down to the wagon and gave him a cheery greeting.
Well--you've brought him back alive, Mr. Dolan, anyway.
Yes ma'am! And I reckon he'll keep you busy puttin' the food to him, if he eats like he works: he's a glutton for work, is Mr. Maxwell.
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.
I don't rightly know what's got into Virginia Bascom, remarked Jonathan, as he sat on Hepsey's side porch one evening, making polite conversation as his new habit was. "She's buzzin' round Mrs. Betty like a bee round a flower--thicker'n thieves they be, by gum."
Yes, cogitated Hepsey, half to herself, and half in response, "the lamb's lyin' down all right, and it's about time we'd got the lion curled up by her and purrin' like a cat. But I don't see the signs of it, and I'll have to take my knittin' to-morrow and sit right down in his den and visit with him a little. If he won't purr, I've got what'll make him roar, good and proper, or I've missed my guess."
Now Hepsey, you go easy with my church-partner, the Senior Warden. When his wife lived, he was a decent sort of a feller, was Sylvester Bascom; and I reckon she got him comin' her way more with molasses than with vinegar.
And though Hepsey snorted contempt for the advice of a mere male, she found the thought top-side of her mind as she started out next morning to pay Bascom a momentous call. After all, Jonathan had but echoed her own consistent philosophy of life. But with her usual shrewdness she decided to go armed with both kinds of ammunition.
Mrs. Burke puffed somewhat loudly as she paused on the landing which led to the door of Bascom's office. After wiping her forehead with her handkerchief she gave three loud knocks on the painted glass of the door, which shook some of the loose putty onto the floor. After knocking the third time some one called out "Come in," and she opened the door, entered, and gazed calmly across the room. Bascom was seated at his desk talking to a farmer, and when he turned around and discovered who his visitor was, he ejaculated irreverently:
Good Lord deliver us!
Oh, do excuse me! Mrs. Burke replied. "I didn't know that you were sayin' the Litany. I'll just slip into the next room and wait till you get through."
Whereupon she stepped into the next room, closed the door, and made herself comfortable in a large arm-chair. There was a long table in the middle of the room, and the walls were covered with shelves and yellow books of a most monotonous binding. The air was musty and close. She quietly opened one of the windows, and having resumed her seat, she pulled a wash-rag from her leather bag and began knitting calmly.
She waited for some time, occasionally glancing at the long table, which was covered with what appeared to be a hopeless confusion of letters, legal documents, and books opened and turned face downward. Occasionally she sniffed in disgust at the general untidiness of the place. Evidently the appearance of the table in front of her was getting on her nerves; and so she put her knitting away as she muttered to herself:
I wonder Virginia don't come up here once in a while and put things to rights. It's simply awful! Then she began sorting the papers and gathering them into little uniform piles by themselves. She seemed to have no notion whatever of their possible relation to each other, but arranged them according to their size and color in nice little separate piles. When there was nothing else left for her to do she resumed her knitting and waited patiently for the departure of the farmer. The two men seemed to be having a rather warm dispute over the interpretation of some legal contract; and if Bascom was hot-tempered and emphatic in his language, bordering on the profane, the client was stubborn and dull-witted and hard to convince. Occasionally she overheard bits of the controversy which were not intended for her ears. Bascom insisted:
But you're not such a dum fool as to think that a contract legally made between two parties is not binding, are you? You admit that I have fulfilled my part, and now you must pay for the services rendered or else I shall bring suit against you.
The reply to this was not audible, but the farmer did not seem to be quite convinced.
After what seemed to her an interminable interval the door banged, and she knew that Bascom was alone. She did not wait for any invitation, but rising quietly she went into the inner office and took the chair vacated by the farmer. Bascom made a pretense of writing, in silence, with his back towards her, during which interval Hepsey waited patiently. Then, looking up with the expression of a deaf-mute, he asked colorlessly:
Well, Mrs. Burke, what may I do for you?
You can do nothing for me--but you can and must do something for the Maxwells, she replied firmly but quietly.
Don't you think it would be better to let Maxwell take care of his own affairs?
Yes, most certainly, if he were in a position to do so. But you know that the clergy are a long-sufferin' lot, more's the pity; they'll endure almost anythin' rather than complain. That's why you and others take advantage of them.
Ah, but an earnest minister of the Gospel does not look for the loaves and fishes of his calling.
I shouldn't think he would. I hate fish, myself; but Maxwell has a perfect right to look for the honest fulfillment of a contract made between you and him. Didn't I hear you tell that farmer that he was a dum fool if he thought that a contract made between two parties is not legally binding, and that if you fulfilled your part he must pay for your services or you would sue him? Do you suppose that a contract with a carpenter or a plumber or a mason is binding, while a contract with a clergyman is not? What is the matter with you, anyway?
Bascom made no reply, but turned his back towards Hepsey and started to write. She resumed:
Donald Maxwell's salary is goin' to be paid him in full within the next two weeks or----
Mrs. Burke came to a sudden silence, and after a moment or two Bascom turned around and inquired sarcastically:
Or what?
Hepsey continued to knit in silence for a while, her face working in her effort to gain control of herself and speak calmly.
Now see here, Sylvester Bascom: I didn't come here to have a scene with you, and if I knit like I was fussed, you must excuse me.
Her needles had been flashing lightning, and truth to tell, Bascom, for all he dreaded Hepsey's sharp tongue as nothing else in Durford, had been unable to keep his eyes off those angry bits of sparkling steel. Suddenly they stopped--dead. The knitting fell into Hepsey's lap, and she sat forward--a pair of kindly, moist eyes searching the depths of Bascom's, as he looked up at her. Her voice dropped to a lower tone as she continued:
There's been just one person, and one person only, that's ever been able to keep the best of you on top--and she was my best friend, your wife. She kept you human, and turned even the worst side of you to some account. If you did scrape and grub, 'most night and day, to make your pile, and was hard on those that crossed your path while doin' of it, it was she that showed you there was pleasure in usin' it for others as well as for yourself, and while she lived you did it. But since she's been gone,--the old man tried to keep his face firm and his glance steady, but in vain--he winced,--"since she's been gone, the human in you's dried up like a sun-baked apple. And it's you, Sylvester Bascom, that's been made the most miserable, 'spite of all the little carks you've put on many another."
His face hardened again, and Hepsey paused.
What has all this to do with Mr. Maxwell, may I ask?
I'm comin' to that, continued Hepsey, patiently. "If Mary Bascom were alive to-day, would the rector of Durford be livin' in a tent instead of in the rectory--the house she thought she had given over, without mortgage or anything else, to the church? And would you be holdin' back your subscription to the church, and seein' that others held back too? I never thought you'd have done, when she was dead, what'd have broken her heart if she'd been livin'. The church was her one great interest in life, after her husband and her daughter; and it was her good work that brought the parish to make you Senior Warden. After you'd made money and moved to your new house, just before she died, she gave the old house, that was hers from her father, to the church, and you were to make the legal transfer of it. Then she died suddenly, and you delayed and delayed--claiming the house as yours, and at last sold it to us subject to the mortgage."
The old man stirred uneasily in his chair.
This is all quite beside the mark. What might have been proper to do in my wife's life-time became a different matter altogether after her death. I had my daughter's welfare to think of; besides----
I'm not talkin' about your legal right. But you know that if you'd wanted to have it, you could have got your interest on the mortgage quick enough. If you hadn't held back on his salary, others wouldn't have; or if they had, you could have got after 'em. What's the use of tryin' to mix each other up? You couldn't keep Maxwell in your pocket, and because he didn't come to you every day for orders you reckoned to turn him out of the parish. You've not one thing against him, and you know it, Sylvester Bascom. He's shown you every kind of respect as his Senior Warden, and more patience than you deserved. He let himself be--no, had himself--bled, to save your life. But instead of making him the best young friend you could have had, and makin' yourself of real use to your town and your neighbors through him and his work, you've let the devil get into you; and when your accident come, you'd got to where you were runnin' that fast down a steep place into the sea that I could 'most hear the splash.
She cocked her head on one side, and smiled at him whimsically, hoping for some response to her humorous picture. A faint ghost of a smile--was it, or was it not?--flickered on the old man's lips; but he gave no sign of grace.
Hepsey sighed, and paused for an instant. "Well--we can't sit here talkin' till midnight, or I shall be compromisin' your reputation, I suppose. There'll be a meeting of the parishioners called at the end of this week, and the rector won't be present at it; so, Warden, I suppose you'll preside. I hope you will. I've got to do my part--and that is to see that the parish understands just how their rector's placed, right now, both about his house and his salary. He's workin' as a laborer to get enough for him and that little wife of his to live on, and the town knows it--but they don't all know that it's because the salary that's properly his is bein' held back on him, and by those that pay their chauffeurs more than the rector gets, by a good piece. I shall call on every one at that meetin' to pay up; and I shall begin with the poorest, and end up"--she fixed Bascom's eye, significantly--"with the richest. And if it seems to be my duty to do it, I may have somethin' more to say when the subscription's closed--but I don't believe--no," she added, opening her bag and rummaging about among its contents till she hit upon a letter and brought it forth, "no, I don't believe I'll have to say a thing. I've got a hunch, Sylvester Bascom, that it'll be you that'll have the last word, after all."
The old man's glance was riveted upon the familiar handwriting of the faded letter, and without a word Hepsey started to read it, date and all, in a clear voice:
* * * * *
WILLOW BLUFF, DURFORD.
September ----, 19--.
HEPSEY DEAR:
I suppose you will never forgive me for making the move from the old house to Willow Bluff, as it's to be called, while you were not home to help me. But they got finished sooner than we thought for, and Sylvester was as eager as a child with a new toy to get moved in. So here we are, and the first letter I write from our new home is to you, who helped more than anyone to make the old home happy for me and mine--bless them and bless you!
Everything is out of the old house--"The Rectory" as I shall call it, now--except such pieces of furniture as we did not want to take away, and we thought might be welcome to the parson (or parsons, I suppose) who may occupy it. Sister Susan thought it slighting to Pa's generosity to give the house to the church; but I don't look at it like that. Anyway, it's done now--and I'm very happy to think that the flock can offer a proper home to its shepherd, as long as the old place stands.
If you get back Thursday I shall just be ready for you to help me with the shades and curtains, if you care to.
Your friend,
MARION ANDERSON BASCOM.
P. S. Ginty sends her love to Aunt Hepsey, and says, "to come to Boston quick!" She's a little confused, someway, and can't get it out of her head that we're not back home in Boston, since we left the old place. I hope you are having a nice visit with Sally.
* * * * *
As Hepsey read, Sylvester Bascom turned, slowly, away from her, his head on his hand, gazing out of the window. When she had finished reading, the letter was folded up and replaced in the bag along with her knitting. Then, laying her hand with a gentle, firm pressure on the old man's shoulder, Mrs. Burke departed.
For the next few days Hepsey's mind worked in unfamiliar channels, for her nature was that of a benevolent autocrat, and she had found herself led by circumstances into a situation demanding the prowess and elasticity of the diplomat. To begin with, she must risk a gamble at the meeting: if the spiritual yeast did not rise in old Bascom, as she hoped it would, and crown her strategy with success, she would have to fall back on belligerent tactics, and see if it were not possible to get his duty out of him by threatened force of public opinion: and she knew that, with his obstinacy, it would be touch and go on which side of the fence he would fall in a situation of that kind--dependent, in fact, upon the half turn of a screw, more or less, for the result. Furthermore, she concluded that beyond the vaguest hint of her call on Bascom and the object of the meeting, she could not show her hand to Maxwell; for he would feel it his duty to step in and prevent the possibility of any such open breach as failure on Hepsey's part would probably make in the parish solidarity. For once she must keep her own counsel--except for Jonathan, whose present infatuated condition made him an even safer and more satisfactory source of "advice" than he normally was. But the evening before the meeting, as he sat on Hepsey's porch, he began to experience qualms, perhaps in his capacity as Junior Warden. But Hepsey turned upon him relentlessly:
Now see here! You know I don't start somethin' unless I can see it through; and if it means a scrap, so much the better. Next to a good revival, a good hard scrap in a stupid parish has a real spiritual value. It stimulates the circulation, increases the appetite, gives people somethin' to think about, and does a lot of good where peaceful ways would fail. The trouble with us is that we've always been a sight too peaceful. If I've got to do it, I'm goin' to make a row, a real jolly row that'll make some people wish they'd never been born. No-no-no! Don't you try to interfere. We've come to a crisis, and I'm goin' to meet it. Don't you worry until I begin to holler for first aid to the injured. A woman can't vote for a vestryman, though women form the bulk of the congregation, and do most all of the parish work; and the whole church'd go to smithereens if it weren't for the women. But there's one thing a woman can always do: She can talk. They say that talk is cheap; but sometimes it's a mighty expensive article, if it's the right kind; and maybe the men will have to settle the bills. I'm going to talk; perhaps you think that's nothing new. But you don't know how I can talk when once I get my dander up. Somebody's goin' to sit up and pay attention this time. Bascom'll conclude to preside at the meetin'; whichever way he means to act; and I've fixed it so Maxwell will be engaged on other duties. No; go 'way. I don't want to see you around here again until the whole thing's over.
All right Hepsey, all right. I guess if it goes through the way you want you'll be that set up you'll be wantin' to marry old Bascom 'stead of me, chuckled Jonathan, as the lady of his choice turned to enter the house.
She faced round upon him as she reached the door, her features set with grim determination:
If I get the whole caboodle, bag and baggage, from the meetin' and from Bascom, there's no knowin' but what I'll send for the parson and be married right there and then. There isn't a thing I could think of, in the line of a real expensive sacrifice, that'd measure up as compensation for winnin' out--not even marryin' you, Jonathan Jackson.
So Hepsey laid down lines for control of the meeting, ready with a different variety of expedients, from point to point in its progress, as Sylvester Bascom's attitude at the time might necessitate. For she felt very little anxiety as to her ability to carry the main body of the audience along with her.
The night of the meeting the Sunday School Room, adjacent to the church, was filled full to a seat at least a quarter of an hour before the time announced for the meeting. Hepsey had provided herself with a chair in the center of the front row, directly facing the low platform to be occupied by the chairman. Her leather bag hung formidably on one arm, and a long narrow blank book was laid on her lap. She took little notice of her surroundings, and her anxiety was imperceptible, as she thrummed with a pencil upon the book, glancing now and then at the side door, watching for Bascom's entrance. The meeting buzzed light conversation, as a preliminary. Had she miscalculated on the very first move? Was he going to treat the whole affair with lofty disdain? As the hour struck, dead silence reigned in the room, expectant; and Jonathan, who sat next her, fidgeted nervously.
Five minutes' grace, and that's all; if he's not here by then, it'll be up to you to call the meetin' to order, whispered Hepsey.
Sakes! hissed the terrified Junior Warden, "you didn't say nothin' about that, Hepsey," he protested.
She leveled a withering glance at him, and was about to reduce him to utter impotence by some scathing remark, when both were startled by a voice in front of them, issuing from "the chair." Silently the Senior Warden had entered, and had proceeded to open the meeting. His face was set and stern, and his voice hard and toneless. No help from that quarter, Hepsey mentally recorded.
As the rector of this parish is not able to be present I have been asked to preside at this meeting. I believe that it was instigated--that is suggested, by some of the ladies who believe that there are some matters of importance which need immediate attention, and must be presented to the congregation without delay. I must beg to remind these ladies that the Wardens and Vestrymen are the business officers of the church; and it seems to my poor judgment that if any business is to be transacted, the proper way would be for the Vestry to take care of it. However, I have complied with the request and have undertaken to preside, in the absence of the rector. The meeting is now open for business.
Bascom sat down and gazed at the audience, but with a stare so expressionless as gave no further index to his mood. For some time there was a rather painful silence; but at last Hepsey Burke arose and faced about to command the audience.
Brethren and sisters, she began, "a few of us women have made up our minds that it's high time that somethin' was done towards payin' our rector what we owe him, and that we furnish him with a proper house to live in."
At this point, a faint murmur of applause interrupted the speaker, who replied: "There. There. Don't be too quick. You won't feel a bit like applaudin' when I get through. It's a burnin' shame and disgrace that we owe Mr. Maxwell about two hundred dollars, which means a mighty lot to him, because if he was paid in full every month he would get just about enough to keep his wife and himself from starvin' to death. I wasn't asked to call this meetin'; I asked the rector to, and I asked the Senior Warden to preside. And I told the rector that some of us--both men and women--had business to talk about that wasn't for his ears. For all he knows, we're here to pass a vote of censure on him. The fact is that we have reached the point where somethin' has got to be done right off quick; and if none of the Vestrymen do it, then a poor shrinkin' little woman like myself has got to rise and mount the band wagon. I'm no woman's rights woman, but I have a conscience that'll keep me awake nights until I have freed my mind."
Here Hepsey paused, and twirling her pencil between her lips, gazed around at her auditors who were listening with breathless attention. Then she suddenly exclaimed with suppressed wrath, and in her penetrating tones:
What is the matter with you men, anyway? You'd have to pay your butcher, or your baker, or your grocer, whether you wanted to or not. Then why in the name of conscience don't you pay your parson? Certainly religion that don't cost nothin' is worse than nothin'. I'll tell you the reason why you don't support your parson: It's just because your rector's a gentleman, and can't very well kick over the traces, or balk, or sue you, even if you do starve him. So you, prosperous, big-headed men think that you can sneak out of it. Oh, you needn't shuffle and look mad; you're goin' to get the truth for once, and I had Johnny Mullins lock the front door before I began.
The whole audience responded to this sally with a laugh, but the speaker relented not one iota. "Then when you've smit your rector on one cheek you quote the Bible to make him think he ought to turn his overcoat also." Another roar. "There: you don't need to think I'm havin' a game. I'm not through yet. Now let's get right down to business. We owe our rector a lot of money, and he is livin' in a tent because we neglected to pay the interest on the rectory mortgage held by the Senior Warden of our church. Talkin' plain business, and nothin' else, turned him out of house and home, and we broke our business contract with him. Yes we did! And now you know it.
"Some of us have been sayin'--and I was one of 'em till Mr. Maxwell corrected me--that it was mean of Mr. Bascom to turn the rector and his wife out of their house. But business is business, and until we've paid the last cent of our contributions, we haven't any right to throw stones at anyone. Wait till we've done our part, for that! We've been the laughing stock of the whole town because of our pesky meanness. That tent of ours has stuck out on the landscape like a horse fly on a pillow sham. It's not my business to tell how the rector and his wife have had to economize and suffer, to get along at all; or how nice and uncomplainin' they've been through it all. They wouldn't want me to say anythin' of that; sportsmen they are, both of 'em. The price of food's gone up, and the rector's salary gone down like a teeter on a log.
" "Now, as I remarked before, let's get right down to business. The only way to raise that money is to raise it! There's no use larkin' all 'round Robin Hood's barn, or scampering round the mulberry bush any longer. I don't care for fairs myself, where you have to go and buy somethin' you don't want, for five times what it's worth, and call it givin' to the Lord. And I don't care to give a chicken, and then have to pay for eatin' the same old bird afterwards. I won't eat soda biscuit unless I know who made 'em. Church fairs are an invention of the devil to make people think they're religious, when they are only mighty restless and selfish. The only thing to do is to put your hands in your trousers pockets and pay, cash down, just as you would in any business transaction. And by cash, I don't mean five cents in the plate Sunday, and a dollar for a show on Tuesday. We've none of us any business to pretend to give to the Lord what doesn't cost a red cent, as the Bible says, somewheres. Now don't get nervous. I'm going to start a subscription paper right here and now. It'll save lots of trouble, and you ought to jump at the chance. You'll be votin' me a plated ice-water pitcher before we get through, for bein' so good to you--just as a little souvenir of the evenin'.""
"A disjointed murmur of disapproval rose from sundry parts of the room at this summary way of meeting the emergency. Nelson, who had tried in vain to catch the eye of the chair, rose at a venture and remarked truculently:
This is a most unusual proceeding, Mrs. Burke.
The chair remained immobile--but Hepsey turned upon the foe like a flash of lightning.
Precisely, Mr. Nelson. And we are a most unusual parish. I don't claim to have any information gained by world-wide travel, but livin' my life as I've found it here, in ths town, I've got to say, that this is the first time I ever heard of a church turnin' its rector out of house and home, and refusin' to give him salary enough to buy food for his family. Maybe in the course of your professional travels this thing has got to be an everyday occurrence to you,--but there's some of us here, that 'aint got much interest in such goings-on, outside of Durford.
You have no authority to raise money for the church; I believe the Warden will concur in that opinion? and he bowed towards Bascom.
That is a point for the meeting to decide, he replied judicially, as Hepsey turned towards him.
Seems to me, continued Mrs. Burke, facing the audience, "that authority won't fill the rector's purse so well as cash. It's awful curious how a church with six Vestrymen and two Wardens, all of them good business men--men that can squeeze money out of a monkey-wrench, and always get the best of the other fellow in a horse-trade, and smoke cigars enough to pay the rector's whole salary--get limp and faint and find it necessary to fall back on talkin' about 'authority' when any money is to be raised. What we want in the parish is not authority, but just everyday plain business hustle, the sort of hustle that wears trousers; and as we don't seem to get that, the next best kind is the sort that wears skirts. I'd always rather that men shall do the public work than women; but if men won't, women must. What we need right here in Durford is a few full grown men who aren't shirks or quitters, who can put up prayers with one hand while they put down the cash with the other; and I don't believe the Lord ever laid it up against any man who paid first, and prayed afterwards.
Now brethren, don't all speak at once. I'm goin' to start takin' subscriptions. Who's goin' to head the list?
A little withered old woman laboriously struggled to her feet, and in a high-pitched, quavering voice began:
I'd like to give suthin' towards the end in view. Our rector were powerful good to my Thomas when he had the brown kitties in his throat. He came to see him mos' every day and read to him, and said prayers with him, and brought him papers and jelly. He certainly were powerful good to my Thomas; and once when Thomas had a fever our rector said that he thought that a bath would do my Thomas a heap of good, and he guessed he'd give him one. So I got some water in a bowl and some soap, and our rector he just took off his coat, and his vest, and his collar, and his cuffs, and our rector he washed Thomas, and he washed him, and he wa----
Well, Hepsey interrupted, to stay the flow of eloquence, "so you'd like to pay for his laundry now, would you Mrs. Sumner? Shall I put you down for two dollars? Good! Mrs. Sumner sets the ball rollin' with two dollars. Who'll be the next?"
As there was no response, Mrs. Burke glanced critically over the assembly until she had picked her man, and then announced:
Hiram Mason, I'm sure you must be on the anxious bench?
Hiram colored painfully as he replied:
I don't know as I am prepared to say what I can give, just at present, Mrs. Burke.
Well now let's think about it a little. Last night's Daily Bugle had your name in a list of those that gave ten dollars apiece at St. Bridget's fair. I suppose the Irish trade's valuable to a grocer like yourself; but you surely can't do less for your own church? I'll put you down for ten, though of course you can double it if you like.
No, said Hiram, meditatively; "I guess ten'll do."
Hiram Mason gives ten dollars. The Lord loveth a cheerful giver. Thanks, Hiram.
Again there was a pause; and as no one volunteered, Hepsey continued:
Sylvester Perkins, how much will you give?
I suppose I'll give five dollars, Sylvester responded, before Mrs. Burke could have a chance to put him down for a larger sum. "But I don't like this way of doin' things a little bit. It's not a woman's place to hold up a man and rob him in public meetin'."
No, a woman usually goes through her husband's pockets when he's asleep, I suppose. But you see I'm not your wife. Thanks, Mr. Perkins: Mr. Perkins, five dollars, she repeated as she entered his subscription in the book. "Next?" she called briskly.
Mrs. Burke, I'll give twenty dollars, if you think that's enough, called a voice from the back timidly.
Everyone turned to the speaker in some surprise. He was a delicate, slender fellow, evidently in bad health. He trembled nervously, and Mrs. Burke hesitated for an instant, between fear of hurting his feelings and letting him give more than she knew he could possibly afford.
I am afraid you ought not to give so much, Amos. Let me put you down for five, she said kindly. "We mustn't rob Peter to pay Paul."
No, ma'am, put me down for twenty, he persisted; and then burst forth--"and I wish it was twenty thousand. I'd do anything for Mr. Maxwell; I owe it to him, I tell you."
The speaker hesitated a moment and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and then continued slowly, and with obvious effort:
Maybe you'll think I am a fool to give myself away before a crowd like this, and I a member of the church; but the simple fact is that Mr. Maxwell saved my life once, when I was pretty near all in.
Again the speaker stopped, breathing heavily, and there was absolute silence in the room. Regaining his courage, he continued: "Yes, he saved me, body and soul, and I guess I'll tell the whole story. Most of you would have kicked me into the street or lodged me in jail; but he wasn't that kind, thank God!
"I was clerking in the Post Office a while back, and I left town one night, suddenly. I'd been drinking some, and when I left, my accounts were two hundred dollars short. The thing was kept quiet. Only two men knew about it. Mr. Maxwell was one. He got the other man to keep his mouth shut, handed over the amount, and chased after me and made me come back with him and stay at his house for a while. Then he gave me some work and helped me to make a new start. He didn't say a word of reproach, nor he didn't talk religion to me. He just acted as if he cared a whole lot for me, and wanted to put me on my feet again. I didn't know for a long time where Mr. Maxwell got the money for me but after a while I discovered that he'd given a chattel mortgage on his books and personal belongings. Do you suppose that there's anybody else in the world would have done that for me? It wasn't only his giving me the money; it was finding that somebody trusted me and cared for me, who had no business to trust me, and couldn't afford to trust me. That's what saved me and kept me straight.
"I haven't touched a drop since, and I never will. I've been paying my debt to him as quick as I can, and as far as money can pay it; but all the gold in the world wouldn't even me up with him. I don't know just why I've told all about it, but I guess it's because I felt you ought to know the kind of a man the rector is; and I'm glad he isn't here, or he'd never have let me give him away like this.
Amos sat down, while the astonished gathering stared at him, the defaulter, who in a moment of gratitude had betrayed himself. The woman next to him edged a little farther away from him and watched him furtively, but he did not seem to care.
Under the stimulus of this confession, the feelings of the people quickly responded to the occasion, and a line soon formed, without further need of wit or eloquence on Hepsey's part, to have their subscriptions recorded. In half an hour, Mrs. Burke, whose face was glowing with pleasure--albeit she glanced anxiously from time to time towards old Mr. Bascom, in an endeavor to size up his mood and force his intentions--had written down the name of the last volunteer. She turned towards her audience:
As I don't want to keep you waitin' here all night while I add up the subscriptions, I'll ask the chairman to do it for me and let you know the result. He's quicker at figurin' than I am, I guess, with which compliment, she smilingly handed the book to the Senior Warden. While the old man bent to his task, the room buzzed with low, excited conversation. Enough was already known of Bascom's hostility to the rector, to make the meeting decidedly curious as to his attitude towards Hepsey's remarks and the mortgage; and they knew him well enough to be aware that he would not allow that item in her speech to go unanswered, in some way or other.
All eyes rested upon the gaunt figure of the chairman, as he rose to his feet to announce the total of the subscription list. He cleared his throat, and looked down at Hepsey Burke; and Jonathan, as he squinted anxiously at Hepsey by his side, noticed that she sat with her eyes tight-closed, oblivious of the chairman's glance. Jonathan looked hastily up at Bascom, and noticed him shift his position a little nervously, as he cleared his throat again.
The amount subscribed on this list, is two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and thirty-five cents, he said. The loud applause was instantaneous, and Jonathan turned quickly to Hepsey, as he stamped his feet and clapped his hands.
Thirty-seven thirty-five more than we owe him; Hepsey, you've done fine, he chortled.
But Hepsey's look was now riveted on the chairman, and except for a half-absent smile of pleasure, the keenest anxiety showed in her expression.
Bascom cleared his voice again, and then proceeded:
Mrs. Burke informed you that the rector's salary was in arrears to the extent of about two hundred dollars. It is now for this meeting to pass a formal resolution for the application of the amount subscribed to the object in view.
Hepsey's lips narrowed; not a cent was down on the list to the name of the Senior Warden; the debt was being paid without assistance from him.
I presume I may put it to the meeting that the amount, when collected, be paid over to the rector by a committee formed for that purpose? proceeded the chairman.
This resolution being duly seconded and carried, Bascom continued:
Before we adjourn I request the opportunity to make a few remarks, in reply to Mrs. Burke's observations concerning the ejection of the rector from the house which he occupied. She was good enough to spare my feelings by pointing out that from a business or legal point of view it was not I who was responsible for that act, but the parishioners, who, having purchased the rectory subject to a mortgage, had failed to meet the interest upon it. That is what Mrs. Burke said: what she did not say, and what none of you have said in public, though I reckon you've said it among yourselves, I will take upon myself to say for her and you.
He paused--and every eye was fixed upon him and every mouth agape in paralysed astonishment: and the said features of Hepsey Burke were no exception to the rule.
When, continued Bascom evenly and urbanely, "the word went round that the interest on the mortgage had got behind, and the money must be collected for it, those concerned no doubt remarked easily: 'Oh, I guess that'll be all right. Bascom won't worry about that; he don't need it; anyway he can pay it to himself, for the parish, if he does.'"
There was an uncomfortable stirring of the audience at this shrewd thrust; but Hepsey could not contain herself, and laughed right out, clapping loudly.
And yet I don't mind saying that if I had thought of suggesting to anyone of you such a method of collecting interest due to you, you might have kicked some, he commented dryly.
At the next step, when I ultimately concluded to act upon my right to eject Mr. Maxwell from the rectory, I've no doubt that on all sides it was: 'Well, did you ever know the likes of that? Turning the rector out of house and home! Well he's a skinflint for fair!'
He paused and watched the effect. This time his hearers sat absolutely motionless.
And I agree with you, he added presently, in a quiet voice: "I was a skinflint for fair!"
Almost Hepsey forgot herself so far as to clap thunderously: she caught her hands together just in time--recollecting that her demonstration would be taken too literally.
But I would not have you misunderstand me: though it was for me to call myself a skinflint for that act, it was not for you to do so. You did so on wrong grounds. Those who in making money have been less successful than others, find it convenient to leave all such obligations upon the shoulders of the richer man, and to say 'it's up to him; he can afford it.' Is it any wonder that it makes the rich man sour on subscriptions and philanthropies? He has as much, or more, of inducement to apply his earnings and savings to his own ends and pleasures; why then, is it not up to all, in their own proportions to meet social needs? A good many years of such meanness among his neighbors makes even a rich man sour and mean, I guess. And that's what it made me--and though that isn't a justification of my act, it gave me as much right to call you skinflints as for you to call me: all except one of you, Hepsey Burke.
The meeting quivered with tense excitement. What did it all mean? If a chicken had sneezed the whole gathering would have been dissolved in hysterics, it was so keyed up with a sense of the impending disclosure of a deep mystery. As for Hepsey, she sat motionless, though Jonathan believed that he caught sight of a tear glistening in its descent.
"Hepsey Burke had a right to call me a skinflint, because she knew what none of you knew; but because it was private knowledge she wouldn't make use of it against me--not unless she couldn't have done what was right any other way. And now I'm going to tell you what she knew: The rectory was my wife's property, and she intended it as a gift to the parish, for the rectory of the church. I was preparing the deeds of transfer, when she died--suddenly, as some of you remember,"" his voice made heroic efforts to keep clear and steady, ""owing to her death before the transfer, that house passed to our daughter; and what I intended to do was to buy it of her and present it to the parish. I delayed, at first for good reasons. And I suppose as I got more and more lonesome and mixed less and less with people, I got sourer--and then I delayed from meanness. It would have been easy enough for me to buy it of my daughter, and she'd have been willing enough; but as I saw more and more put upon me, and less and less human recognition--I was 'a rich man,' and needed no personal sympathy or encouragement, it seemed--I held back. And I got so mean, I couldn't make friends with the rector, even.""
"He paused, and from the half smile on his face, and the hint of brightness that passed over his expression, the audience caught relief.
I guess a good shaking up is good for a man's liver: it cures a sour stomach--and as there are those that say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, perhaps it cures a sour heart. I got my shaking up all right, as you know; and perhaps that's been working a cure on me. Or perhaps it was the quiet ministrations of that little Mrs. Betty of yours--applause--"or the infusion of some of the rector's blood in my veins (he let himself be bled to keep me alive, after I'd lost what little blood I had, as you probably have never heard)"--shouts of applause--"or possibly what cured me was a little knitting-visit that Hepsey Burke paid me the other day, and during which she dropped some home-truths: I can't say.
Before I decided what I would do about the rectory, I wanted to see what you would do, under Mrs. Burke's guidance, this evening. You've shouldered your share, as far as the rector's salary is concerned. Well--I'll add what I consider my fair share to that, fifty dollars. The arrears due on the mortgage interest is one hundred and twenty dollars. I shall hold you to your side of that bargain, to date. If you pay the rector the two hundred dollars due him on his salary, you will need to subscribe about another forty to make up the interest: that done, and paid to me, I will do my part, and present the rectory to the parish, in memory of my dear wife, as she desired.
He sat down.
Hepsey rose and called out in a clear voice:
He's right; Mr. Bascom's dead right; it's up to us to be business first, and clear ourselves of the debt on a business bargain; then we can accept the gift without too much worryin'. And she sent a very friendly smile over to Bascom.
Again there was some cheering, in the midst of which Jonathan Jackson jumped to his feet beside Hepsey; and facing the room, with his arm through hers, he shouted:
Hepsey Burke and me will make up the difference!
Another cheer went up, and Hepsey's face flamed scarlet amid the craning of necks and chaffing laughter--half puzzled, half understanding.
Sylvester Bascom rose to his feet, and there was silence. With assumed seriousness he addressed Hepsey, still standing:
Mrs. Burke, so that it may be quite in order, do you endorse Mr. Jackson's authority to speak for you in this matter?
Every eye was turned upon them; but Hepsey could find not a word, so flabergasted was she by this sudden move of Jonathan's. Jonathan himself colored furiously, but stuck to his guns, and Hepsey's arm:
Well, to tell the truth, he replied in a jaunty voice, "Hepsey Burke and me's goin' to be married right now, so I guess we'll combine our resources, like."
This announcement gave the coup de grace to any further attempt at orderliness, and the room became a seething chorus of congratulatory greetings aimed at Hepsey and Jonathan, in the midst of which Sylvester Bascom slipped out unnoticed.
Chapter 24 Omnium Gatherum
When at last the room emptied, and she was free to do so, Hepsey, accompanied by the possessive Jonathan, found her way over to the Maxwells. Before she started to tell them the results of the meeting she cast a glance of whimsical affection at her palpitating fiance.
I'd best let him get it off his chest--then we'll get down to business, she laughed.
So Jonathan, amid much handshaking and congratulation told his victorious story--until, when he seemed to Hepsey to become too triumphant, she broke in with: "Now that's enough for you, Mr. Proudmouth. Let me just say a word or two, will you? The meetin' wasn't called for you and me, and I want to tell about more important happenin's."
When they had heard of all that had been accomplished, Mrs. Betty got up and put her arms round Hepsey's neck and gave her such a hug, and a kiss on each cheek, that brought the tears to Mrs. Burke's eyes. And Donald, moist-eyed in spite of himself, took her hand in both of his, and expressed his feelings and relieved the tension at the same time by saying:
Hepsey Burke, for all your molasses and the little bit of vinegar you say you keep by you, 'there are no flies on you' as Nickey would put it.
At which sally Jonathan slapped his knee, and ejaculated:
No! there 'aint, by gum! There 'aint no flies on Hepsey, if I do say it myself.
At which proprietory speech Hepsey wagged her head warningly, saying, as they left--"There's no downin' him, these days; I'm sure I don't know what's come over the man."
On their way home Jonathan was urgent for fixing the day.
You said you'd marry me right there and then, if the meetin' came your way, now you know you did, Hepsey, he argued. "So if we say to-morrow----"
But though Hepsey would never go back on a promise, she protested against too summary an interpretation of it, and insisted on due time to prepare herself for her wedding. So a day was set some two months hence.
Meanwhile, Sylvester Bascom's truer and pristine nature blossomed forth in the sunnier atmosphere around him, and after he had delivered himself of his feelings to the Maxwells, in a visit which he paid them next day at their nomadic quarters, he begged leave to put the rectory in full repair before he handed it over to the parish, and the Maxwells returned to it.
And he was better than his word; for, with Hepsey and Virginia accompanying her, he insisted on Mrs. Betty taking a trip to the city a few days later for the purpose of selecting furnishings of various kinds dear to the hearts of housekeepers--Hepsey absorbing a share of the time in selecting her "trousseau."
Meanwhile, in due course the rectory was made a new place, inside and out, and a few weeks after their return the transformed house, repainted inside and out, papered and curtained and charmingly fitted with new furniture, was again occupied by the Maxwells.
That the interest of the parish should for a while be concentrated on the doings at the rectory, and diverted from her own important preparations, was a blessing to Hepsey--for she continually declared to Mrs. Betty that, little as she knew Jonathan in his new manner, she knew herself less!
It was decided that the wedding should be in the church, and a reception held after the ceremony, for the bride and bridegroom, at the rectory--and that, in this way, the whole parish would celebrate, in honor of the auspicious occasion, and of other happy results of Hepsey's parish meeting.
The day before the wedding, while Mrs. Betty and Virginia were busily occupied at Thunder Cliff and the rectory, dividing their attentions between the last touches to Hepsey's wardrobe, and preparing confections for the wedding guests, Donald Maxwell was closeted with Mr. Bascom at Willow Bluff for a considerable time. It was known that the Senior Warden was to support his colleague, Jonathan, at the morrow's event, and it was presumed that the rector was prompting him in his duties for the occasion.
The ceremony next day at the church was a center of fervent and cordial good-will and thanksgiving, as Jonathan, supported by Sylvester Bascom, took to wife Hepsey, given away by Mrs. Betty, with Virginia as a kind of maid of honor, hovering near. It was well for Donald Maxwell that his memory served him faithfully in conducting the service, for his eyes were in misty conflict with his bright smile. Nickey from the front pew, watched his mother with awestruck eyes, and with son-like amazement at her self-possessed carriage under the blaze of so much public attention.
There followed a procession from the church, and soon the rectory, house and garden, were alive with chattering groups, of all sorts and conditions, for the invitations had been general and public, irrespective of class or sect, at Hepsey's special request. There was a constant line of friends, known and unknown, filing past bride and bridegroom, with congratulatory greetings and cordial good wishes. There were speeches from delegations of various local bodies, and from local notables of various degrees; and there were wedding presents, out-vying each other, as it seemed, in kindly personal significance rather than in costliness. Among them all, and arranged by Mrs. Betty at the very center, the Vestry's gift to the bride stood easily first: a plated ice-water pitcher!
It was left to Maxwell to make the farewell speech, as the company crowded round the automobile, lent by the Bascoms, in which Hepsey and Jonathan sat in smiling happiness, ready to drive to the station, on their way for a week's honeymoon.
Friends! he said, in a voice that reached to the skirts of the assembled throng, "before we give a valedictory 'three times three' to the happy couple, I have to tell you of a plan that has been made to commemorate this day permanently--and so that Mrs. Jackson may not forget the place she holds in our hearts, and always will hold, as Hepsey Burke.
It is Mr. Bascom's idea, and I know it will give lasting pleasure to Mrs. Burke--I mean Mrs. Jackson, he corrected, laughing, "as well as to all Durford, young and old. The beautiful piece of woodland, half a mile beyond Willow Bluff, is to-day presented by Mr. Bascom to the town, and we shall shortly repair there to watch the boys erect the tent now on the church plot, and which Mr. Jackson has kindly presented to the Boy Scouts."
Gee, yelled Nickey, in astounded delight, and leading a cheer that interrupted the speaker for some moments.
Maxwell continued: "Mr. Bascom's generous gift to the town will be kept in order by the Boy Scouts, as their permanent camping-ground--and I daresay Nickey Burke will not be averse to occupying the tent with his corps, during the week or so that Mrs. Jackson is to be away. The place is to be called in her honor--'Hepsey Burke Park.' And now--Three cheers for the bride and groom."
The cheers were given with whole-hearted fervor, as the man at the wheel tooted, and the auto started on its way with the smiling pair, followed by the people's delighted shouts of approbation at the happy plan for perpetuating among them the cheerful name of Hepsey Burke.
The End