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 239 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, 240 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 241 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 242 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.” 243
“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 244 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, 245 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 246 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 247 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 248 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.
“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”
“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.” 250
“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 251 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 252 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 254 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 255 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 256 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, 257 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: 258
“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 259 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 260 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.” 261
“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 262 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 263 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?” 264
“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 265 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, 266 “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 267 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 268 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 269 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, 270 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 272 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 273 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 274 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 275 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 276 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, 277 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 278 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. 279 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 280 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.”