“It’s a fine morning, Mr. Maxwell,” Mrs. Burke remarked at breakfast next day, “and I’m goin’ to drive down to the village to do some shopping. Don’t you want to go with me and pay your respects to the Senior Warden? You’ll find him in his office. Then I’ll meet you later, and bring you home—dead or alive!”
Maxwell laughed. “That sounds cheerful, but I should be glad to go.”
“I guess you better, and have it over with. He’ll 37 expect it. He’s like royalty: he never calls first; and when he’s at home he always has a flag on a pole in the front yard. If he’s out of town for the day, his man lowers the flag. I generally call when the flag’s down. I wish everybody had a flag; it’s mighty convenient.”
The center of Durford’s social, commercial and ecclesiastical life was the village green, a plot of ground on which the boys played ball, and in the middle of which was the liberty pole and the band-stand. On one side of the green was a long block of stores, and on the opposite side a row of churches, side by side, five in number. There was the Meeting House, in plain gray; “The First Church of Durford,” with a Greek portico in front; “The Central Church,” with a box-like tower and a slender steeple with a gilded rooster perched on top—an edifice which looked like a cross between a skating rink and a railroad station; and last of all, the Episcopal Church on the corner—a small, elongated structure, which might have been a carpenter-shop but for the little cross which surmounted the front gable, and the pointed tops of the narrow windows, which were supposed to be “gothic” and to proclaim the structure to be the House of God.
Just around the corner was a little tumble-down 38 house known as “The Rectory.” The tall grass and the lowered shades indicated that it had been unoccupied for some time. Mrs. Burke called Maxwell’s attention to it.
“I suppose you’ll be living there some day—if you stay here long enough; though of course you can’t keep house there alone. The place needs a lot of over-haulin’. Nickey says there’s six feet of plaster off the parlor ceilin’, and the cellar gets full of water when it rains; but I guess we can fix it up when the time comes. That’s your cathedral, on the corner. You see, we have five churches, when we really need only one; and so we have to scrap for each other’s converts, to keep up the interest. We feed ’em on sandwiches, pickles and coffee every now and then, to make ’em come to church. Yes, preachin’ and pickles, sandwiches and salvation, seem to run in the same class, these days.”
When they arrived in front of the block, Mrs. Burke hitched her horse, and left Maxwell to his own devices. He proceeded to hunt up the post office; and as the mail was not yet distributed, he had to wait some time, conscious of the fact that he was the center of interest to the crowd assembled in the room. Finally, when he gained access to the delivery window, he was greeted by a smile from the postmistress, 39 a woman of uncertain age, who remarked as she handed him his letters:
“Good morning, Mr. Maxwell. Glad to meet you. I’m a Presbyterian myself; but I have always made it a point to be nice to everybody. You seem to have quite a good many correspondents, and I presume you’ll be wantin’ a lock box. It’s so convenient. You must feel lonesome in a strange place. Drop in and see mother some day. She’s got curvature of the spine, but no religious prejudices. She’ll be right glad to see you, I’m sure, even though she’s not ’Piscopal.”
Maxwell thanked her, and inquired the way to the Senior Warden’s office, to which she directed him.
Three doors below the post office was a hallway and a flight of stairs leading up to Mr. Bascom’s sanctum. As he ascended, Maxwell bethought him of the Bishop’s hint that this was the main stronghold for the exercise of his strategy. The Senior Warden, for some reason or other, had persistently quarreled with the clergy, or crossed them. What was the secret of his antagonism? Would he be predisposed in Maxwell’s favor, or prejudiced against him? He would soon discover—and he decided to let Bascom do most of the talking. Reaching the first landing, Donald knocked on a door the upper panel of which was filled with glass, painted white. On 40 the glass in large black letters was the name: “Sylvester Bascom.”
The Senior Warden sat behind a table, covered with musty books and a litter of letters and papers. In his prime he had been a small man; and now, well past middle age, he looked as if he had shrunk until he was at least five sizes too small for his skin, which was sallow and loose. There was a suspicious look in his deep-set eyes, which made his hooked nose all the more aggressive. He was bald, except for a few stray locks of gray hair which were brushed up from his ears over the top of his head, and evidently fastened down by some gluey cosmetic. He frowned severely as Maxwell entered, but extended a shriveled, bony hand, and pointed to a chair. Then placing the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest, he gazed at Donald as if he were the prisoner at the bar, and began without any preliminary welcome:
“So you are the young man who is to take charge of the church. It is always difficult for a city-bred man to adjust himself to the needs and manners of a country parish. Very difficult, Mr. Maxwell—very difficult.”
Maxwell smiled as he replied:
“Yes, but that is a fault which time will remedy.” 41
“Doubtless. Time has a way of remedying most things. But in the meantime—in the meantime, lack of tact, self-assertiveness, indiscretion, on the part of a clergyman may do much harm—much harm!”
Mr. Maxwell colored slightly as he laughed and replied:
“I should imagine that you have had rather a ‘mean time,’ from the way you speak. Your impressions of the clergy seem to be painful.”
“Well,” the lawyer continued sententiously, “we have had all sorts and conditions of men, as the Prayer Book says; and the result has not always been satisfactory—not always satisfactory. But I was not consulted.”
To this, Maxwell, who was somewhat nettled, replied:
“I suppose that in any case the responsibility for the success of a parish must be somewhat divided between the parson and the people. I am sure I may count on your assistance.”
“Oh yes; oh yes; of course. I shall be very glad to advise you in any way I can. Prevention is better than cure: don’t hesitate to come to me for suggestions. You will doubtless be anxious to follow in the good old ways, and avoid extremes. I am a firm believer in expediency. Though I was not consulted in 42 the present appointment, I may say that what we need is a man of moderate views who can adjust himself to circumstances. Tact, that is the great thing in life. I am a firm believer in tact. Our resources are limited; and a clergyman should be a self-denying man of God, contented with plain living and high thinking. No man can succeed in a country parish who seeks the loaves and fishes of the worldling. Durford is not a metropolis; we do not emulate city ways.”
“No, I should imagine not,” Maxwell answered.
The parson gathered that the Senior Warden felt slighted that he had not been asked by the Bishop to name his appointee; and that if he had bethought himself to sprinkle a little hay-seed on his clothing, his reception might have been more cordial.
At this point the door opened and a woman, hovering somewhere between twenty-five and forty, dressed in rather youthful and pronounced attire, entered, and seeing Donald exclaimed:
“Oh, papa, I did not know that you were busy with a client. Do excuse me.”
Then, observing the clerical attire of the “client,” she came forward, and extending her hand to Donald, exclaimed with a coy, insinuating smile:
“I am sure that you must be Mr. Maxwell. I am 43 so glad to see you. I hope I am not interrupting professional confidences.”
“Not in the least,” Donald replied, as he placed a chair for her. “I am very glad to have the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Bascom.”
“I heard last night that you had arrived, Mr. Maxwell; and I am sure that it is very good of you to come and see papa so soon. I hope to see you at our house before long. You know that we are in the habit of seeing a good deal of the rector, because—you will excuse my frankness—because there are so few people of culture and refinement in this town to make it pleasant for him.”
“I am sure that you are very kind,” Donald replied. Miss Bascom had adjusted her tortoise-shell lorgnette, and was surveying Donald from head to foot.
“Is your wife with you?” she inquired, as one who would say: “Tell me no lies!”
“No, I am not married.”
At once she was one radiant smile of welcome:
“Papa, we must do all we can to make Mr. Maxwell feel at home at Willow Bluff—so that he will not get lonesome and desert us,” she added genially.
“You’re very kind.”
“You must come and dine with us very soon and 44 see our place for yourself. You are staying with Mrs. Burke, I understand.”
“Yes.”
“How does she impress you?”
“I hardly know her well enough to form any definite opinion of her, though she has been kindness itself to me.”
“Yes, she has a sharp tongue, but a kind heart; and she does a great deal of good in the village; but, poor soul! she has no sense of humor—none whatever. Then of course she is not in society, you know. You will find, Mr. Maxwell, that social lines are very carefully drawn in this town; there are so many grades, and one has to be careful, you know.”
“Is it so! How many people are there in the town?”
“Possibly eight or nine hundred.”
“And how many of them are ‘in society’?”
“Oh, I should imagine not more than twenty or thirty.”
“They must be very select.”
“Oh, we are; quite so.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of seeing the same twenty or thirty all the time? I’m afraid I am sufficiently vulgar to like a change, once in a while—somebody real common, you know.” 45
Miss Bascom raised her lorgnette in pained surprise and gazed at Donald curiously; then she sighed and tapping her fingers with her glasses replied:
“But one has to consider the social responsibilities of one’s position, you know. Many of the village people are well enough in their way, really quite amusing as individuals; but one cannot alter social distinctions.”
“I see,” replied Donald, non-committally.
Virginia was beginning to think that the new rector was rather dull in his perceptions, rather gauche, but, deciding to take a charitable view, she held out her hand with a beaming smile as she said:
“Remember, you are to make Willow Bluff one of your homes. We shall always be charmed to see you.”
When, after their respective shoppings were completed, Maxwell rejoined Mrs. Burke, and they had started on a brisk trot towards home, she remarked:
“So you have had a visit with the Senior Warden.”
“Yes, and with Miss Bascom. She came into the office while I was there.”
“Hm! Well! She’s one of your flock!”
“Would you call Miss Bascom one of my lambs?” asked Donald mischievously. 46
“Oh, that depends on where you draw the line. Don’t you think she’s handsome?”
“I can hardly say. What do you think about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When she’s well dressed she has a sort of style about her; but isn’t it merciful that we none of us know how we really do look? If we did, we wouldn’t risk bein’ alone with ourselves five minutes without a gun.”
“Is that one for Miss Bascom?”
“No, I ought not to say a word against Virginia Bascom. She’s a good sort accordin’ to her lights; and then too, she is a disconnection of mine by marriage—once removed.”
“How do you calculate that relationship?”
“Oh, her mother’s brother married my sister. She suspected that he was guilty of incompatibility—and she proved it, and got a divorce. If that don’t make a disconnection of Ginty Bascom, then I don’t know what does. Virginia was born in Boston, though she was brought up here. It must be terrible to be born in Boston, and have to live up to it, when you spend your whole life in a place like Durford. But Ginty does her very best, though occasionally she forgets.”
“You can hardly blame her for that. Memory is tricky, and Boston and Durford are about as unlike as two places well could be.” 47
“Oh, no; I don’t blame her. Once she formed a club for woman’s suffrage. She set out to ‘form my mind’—as if my mind wasn’t pretty thoroughly formed at this time of day—and get me to protest against the tyranny of the male sex. I didn’t see that the male sex was troublin’ her much; but I signed a petition she got up to send to the Governor or somebody, asking for the right to vote. There was an opposition society that didn’t want the ballot, and they got up another petition.”
“And you signed that too, I expect,” laughed Donald.
“Sure thing, I did. I’m not narrow-minded, and I like to be obliging. Then she tried what she called slummin’, which, as near as I can see, means walkin’ in where you ’aint wanted, because people are poorer than you are, and leavin’ little tracts that nobody reads, and currant jelly that nobody eats, and clothes that nobody can wear. But an Irishman shied a cabbage at her head while she was tryin’ to convince him that the bath-tub wasn’t really a coal bin, and that his mental attitude was hindside before.
“Then she got to be a Theosophist, and used to sit in her room upstairs projecting her astral body out of the window into the back yard, and pulling it in again like a ball on a rubber string—just for practice, 48 you know. But that attack didn’t last long.”
“She seems to be a very versatile young woman; but she doesn’t stick to one thing very long.”
“A rolling stone gathers no moss, you know,” Mrs. Burke replied. “That’s one of the advantages of bein’ a rolling stone. It must be awful to get mossy; and there isn’t any moss on Virginia Bascom, whatever faults she may have—not a moss.”
For a moment Mrs. Burke was silent, and then she began:
“Once Virginia got to climbin’ her family tree, to find out where her ancestors came from. She thought that possibly they might be noblemen. But I guess there wasn’t very much doin’ up the tree until she got down to New York, and paid a man to tell her. She brought back an illuminated coat of arms with a lion rampantin’ on top; but she was the same old Virginia still. What do I care about my ancestors! It doesn’t make no difference to me. I’m just myself anyway, no matter how you figure; and I’m a lot more worried about where I’m goin’ to, than where I came from. Virginia’s got a book called ‘Who’s Who,’ that she’s always studying. But the only thing that matters, it seems to me, is Who’s What.”
“I wonder she hasn’t married,” remarked Donald, innocently. 49
“Ah, that’s the trouble. She’s like a thousand others without no special occupation in life. She’s wastin’ a lot of bottled up interest and sympathy on foolish things. If she’d married and had seven babies, they would have seen to it that she didn’t make a fool of herself. However, it isn’t her fault. She’s volunteered to act as Deaconess to every unmarried parson we’ve had; and it’s a miracle of wonders one of ’em didn’t succumb; parsons are such—oh, do excuse me! I mean so injudicious on the subject of matrimony.”
“But, Mrs. Burke, don’t you think a clergyman ought to be a married man?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, t’aint me that’s been doin’ the thinkin’ along those lines, for most of the parsons we’ve had. I’ve been more of a first aid to the injured, in the matrimonial troubles of our parish, and the Lord only knows when love-making has got as far as actual injury to the parties engaged,—well thinkin’ ’aint much use. But there’s Ginty for example. She’s been worryin’ herself thin for the last five years, doin’ matrimonial equations for the clergy. She’s a firm believer in the virtue of patience, and if the Lord only keeps on sendin’ us unmarried rectors, Ginty is goin’ to have her day. It’s just naturally bound to come. I ’aint sure whether 50 she’s got a right to be still runnin’ with the lambs or not, but that don’t matter much,—old maids will rush in where angels fear to tread.”
Maxwell smiled. “Old maids, and old bachelors, are pretty much alike. I know a few of the latter, that no woman on earth could make into regular human beings.”
“Oh, yes; old bachelors aren’t the nicest thing the Lord ever made. Most of ’em are mighty selfish critters, take ’em as they run; and a man that’s never had a real great love in his life doesn’t know what life is.”
“That’s quite true,” Donald responded, with such warmth that Mrs. Burke glanced at him suspiciously, and changed her tune, as she continued:
“Seems to me a parson, or any other man, is very foolish to marry before he can support a wife comfortably, and lay by somethin’ for a rainy day, though. The last rector had five babies and seventeen cents to feed ’em with. Yes, there were little olive branches on all four sides of the table, and under the table too. The Whittimores seemed to have their quiver full of ’em, as the psalmist says. Mrs. Whittimore used to say to me, ‘The Lord will provide,’—just to keep her courage up, poor thing! Well, I suppose the Lord did provide; but I had to do a lot of hustlin’, just 51 the same. No sir, if a parson marries, he better find a woman who has outgrown her short skirts. Young things dyin’ to be martyrs with a good lookin’ young parson, are a drug in the market. Better go slow.” And Hepsey looked up at him significantly.
“Then you think it would be inadvisable to propose to Miss Virginia immediately, do you?” Donald asked, as if humbly seeking guidance.
“Well, there doesn’t seem to be any immediate hurry about it. Now if you’ll open the gate to Thunder Cliff, I’ll be much obliged to you. If I don’t get my mind on something less romantic than Virginia, we shall have to dine off airy fancies—and that won’t suit Nickey, for one.”
Betty, my love:
I can imagine that just about this time you have finished your dinner, and are enjoying your after-dinner coffee in the library with your father. I would give all that I possess, though heaven knows that is mighty little, to be with you and get you to talk to me, and let me tell you all that has happened since I left you. But instead of that I am alone in my room with your picture on the table while I write, and it is the middle of the evening with 53 us on the farm. I have a bright wood fire on the hearth, as it’s a bit chilly to-night.
To-day I have almost completed my first round of parish visits, and the experience has been a revelation to me of the mixture of pathetic narrowness, hardship, and self-denial of the people up here in the mountains. One minute I am all out of patience with their stupidity, and the next I am touched to the heart by their patience with unendurable conditions, and their generosity and kindness to each other. I hope to be able to adjust my mental equilibrium to the situation before long and to learn to understand them better; I find that a country parson must be a man of many accomplishments, and that I have to learn my profession all over again. Yesterday I called on a poor shriveled old woman who, I was told, was in trouble. When I asked her what I could do for her, she brightened up and informed me that her apple trees were full of worms! So there was nothing for it but to take off my coat and vest, roll up my sleeves, and burn out the worms. I must have destroyed about a bushel, more or less. It took most of the afternoon; but she was pleased, and appeared in church this morning for the first time in six years.
I have learned a lot about the rotation of crops, helped to dig a well, and attended a barn dance. I 54 have eaten pickles by the score at teas given in my honor, rather than offend the hostess; and have had horrible nights in consequence. Every morning Nickey and I take the milk down to the creamery before breakfast. I am so tanned that you would hardly recognize me; and I must confess with shame that I am never more happy than when I am able to put on my soiled working clothes and do manual labor on the farm. I suppose it is the contrast to my former life, and the fact that it takes my thoughts away from the longing for you.
The men up here seem to think I know mighty little. It’s very humiliating! But since they discovered that I am neither “’ristocratic” nor “pious,” they seem to be friendly enough. I often find myself wondering if much of the work in the seminary wasn’t a sheer waste of time, when I am brought up against the practical, commonplace, everyday life of these people. My friend Mrs. Burke has a fund of common sense and worldly wisdom which is worth more than any Ph.D. or S.T.D. represents, to help a man to meet the hard facts of life successfully; and she has been very nice and considerate in making suggestions to me—always wrapped up in a humor all her own. I have found it practically impossible to get into touch with the farmers of the neighborhood 55 without becoming more or less of a farmer myself, and learning by actual experience what the life is like. One man was so openly supercilious when he found out that I did not know how to milk, that Mrs. Burke, who is nothing if not practical, offered to show me.
I have acquired a suit of overalls, and a wide-brimmed straw hat; and so, attiring myself in the most orthodox fashion, Mrs. Burke and I went to the shed yesterday where Louise, the Jersey cow, abides, and I took my first lesson in milking. Mrs. Burke carefully explained to me the modus operandi I was to pursue; and so, taking the tin pail between my knees, I seated myself on the three-legged stool by the side of Louise, and timidly began operations. She seemed to know by some bovine instinct that I was a tenderfoot; and although I followed Mrs. Burke’s instructions to the letter, no milk put in its appearance. Mrs. Burke was highly amused at my perplexity. Finally she remarked:
“You’ve got to introduce yourself, and get Louise’s confidence before she’ll give down. She thinks that you are too familiar on a short acquaintance. Now talk to her a bit, and be friendly.”
This was somewhat of a poser, as Louise and I really have not much in common, and I was at a loss 56 where to begin. But something had to be done, and so I made a venture and remarked:
“Louise, the wind is in the south; and if it doesn’t change, we shall certainly have rain within three days.”
This did not seem to have the desired effect. In fact, she ignored my remark in the most contemptuous fashion. Then Mrs. Burke suggested:
“Get up, and come round where she can see you. No lady wants to be talked to by a gentleman that’s out of sight.”
So I got up and went around by her head, fed her some clover, patted her on the neck, rubbed her nose, and began a little mild, persuasive appeal:
“Louise, I am really a man of irreproachable character. I am a son of the Revolution; I held three scholarships in Harvard; and I graduated second in my class at the General Sem. Furthermore, I’m not at all accustomed to being snubbed by ladies. Can’t you make up your mind to be obliging?”
Louise sniffed at me inquiringly, gazing at me with large-eyed curiosity. Then as if in token that she had come to a favorable conclusion, she ran out her tongue and licked my hand. When I resumed operations, the milk poured into the pail, and Mrs. Burke was just congratulating me on my complete success, 57 when, by some accident the stool slipped, and I fell over backwards, and the whole contents of the pail was poured on the ground. My! but wasn’t I disgusted? I thought Mrs. Burke would never stop laughing at me; but she was good enough not to allude to the loss of the milk!
Some day when we are married, and you come up here, I will take you out and introduce you to Louise, and she will fall in love with you on the spot.
My most difficult task is my Senior Warden—and it looks as if he would not make friends, do what I will to “qualify” according to his own expressed notions of what a country parson should be. But I rather suspect that he likes to keep the scepter in his own hands, while the clergy do his bidding. But that won’t do for me.
So you see the life up here is interesting from its very novelty, though I do get horribly lonesome, sometimes. If I had not pledged myself to the Bishop to stay and work the parish together into something like an organization, I am afraid I should be tempted to cut and run—back to you, sweetheart.
And there was a post script:
“I’ve not said half enough of how much Mrs. Burke’s wisdom has taught and helped me. She is a shrewd observer of human motives, and I expect 58 she has had a struggle to keep the sweetness of her nature at the top. She is, naturally, a capable, dominating character; and often I watch how she forces herself to let persuasiveness take precedence of combativeness. Her acquired philosophy, as applied to herself and others, is summed up in a saying she let drop the other day, modified to suit her needs: ‘More flies are caught with molasses than with vinegar—but keep some vinegar by you!’ Verb. Sap.!”
It happened that the Reverend Donald Maxwell committed a careless indiscretion. When he went to his room to prepare for supper, he found that he had left the miniature of a certain young lady on the mantelpiece, having forgotten to return it to its hiding-place the night before. He quickly placed it in its covering and locked it up in his desk, but not without many misgivings at the thought that Mrs. Burke had probably discovered it when she put his room in order. 60
He was quite right in his surmise, for just as she was about to leave the room she had caught sight of the picture, and, after examining it carefully, she had exclaimed to herself:
“Hm! Hm! So that’s the young woman, is it? In a gilded frame set with real glass rubies and turquoises. I guessed those letters couldn’t come from his mother. She wouldn’t write to him every blessed day; she’d take a day off now and then, just to rest up a bit. Well, well, well! So this is what you’ve been dreaming about; and a mighty good thing too—only the sooner it’s known the better. But I suppose I’ll have to wait for his reverence to inform me officially, and then I’ll have to look mighty surprised! She’s got a good face, anyway; but he ought to wait awhile. Poor soul! she’d just die of loneliness up here. Well, I suppose it’ll be my business to look after her, and I reckon I’d best take time by the fetlock, and get the rectory in order. It isn’t fit for rats to live in now.”
Mrs. Burke’s discovery haunted her all day long, and absorbed her thoughts when she went to bed. If Maxwell was really engaged to be married, she did not see why he did not announce the fact, and have it over with. She had to repeat her prayers three times before she could keep the girl in the gilt frame out 61 of them; and she solved the problem by praying that she might not make a fool of herself.
The next morning she went over to Jonathan Jackson’s house to see what her friend and neighbor, the Junior Warden, would say about the matter. He could be trusted to keep silent and assist her to carry out some provisional plans. She knew exactly what she wished and what she intended to do; but she imagined that she wanted the pleasure of hearing some one tell her that she was exactly right.
Jonathan Jackson was precisely the person to satisfy the demand, as his deceased wife had never allowed him to have any opinion for more than fifteen minutes at a time—if it differed from hers; and when she had made a pretense of consulting him, he had learned by long experience to hesitate for a moment, look judicially wise, and then repeat her suggestions as nearly as he could remember them. So Jonathan made a most excellent friend and neighbor, when any crisis or emergency called for an expert opinion.
Mrs. Burke had been an intimate friend of Sarah Jackson, and just before Mrs. Jackson died she made Hepsey promise that after she was gone she would keep a friendly eye on Jonathan, and see that he did not get into mischief, or let the house run down, or 62 “live just by eatin’ odds and ends off the pantry shelf any old way.” Mrs. Jackson entertained no illusions in regard to her husband, and she trusted Hepsey implicitly. So, after Mrs. Jackson’s mortal departure, Hepsey made periodic calls on Jonathan, which always gave him much pleasure until she became inquisitive about his methods of housekeeping; then he would grow reticent.
“Good morning, Jonathan,” Hepsey called, as she presented herself at the woodshed door, where she caught Jonathan mending some of his underclothes laboriously.
“Well, I declare,” she continued, “I’m blessed if you ’aint sewin’ white buttons on with black thread. Is anybody dead in the family, or ’aint you feelin’ well as to your head this mornin’?”
His voice quavered with mingled embarrassment and resentment as he replied:
“What difference does it make, Hepsey? It don’t make no difference, as long as nobody don’t see it but me.”
“And why in the name of conscience don’t you get a thimble, Jonathan? The idea of your stickin’ the needle in, and then pressin’ it against the chair to make it go through. If that ’aint just like a helpless man, I wouldn’t say.”
“I’M BLESSED IF YOU ’AINT SEWIN’ WHITE BUTTONS ON WITH BLACK THREAD. IS ANYBODY DEAD IN THE FAMILY, OR ’AINT YOU FEELIN’ WELL THIS MORNIN’?”
“Well, of course sewin’ ’aint just a man’s business, anyway; and when he has just got to do it––”
“Why don’t you let Mary McGuire do it for you? You pay her enough, certainly, to keep you from becomin’ a buttonless orphan.”
Mary McGuire, be it said, was the woman who came in by the day, and cooked for Jonathan, and intermittently cleaned him out of house and home.
“She don’t know much about such things,” replied Jonathan confidentially. “I did let her do it for a while; but when my buttonholes got tore larger, instead of sewin’ ’em up, she just put on a larger button; and I’d be buttonin’ my pants with the covers of saucepans by now, if I’d let her go on.”
“It is curious what helpless critters men are, specially widowers. Now Jonathan, why don’t you lay aside your sewin’, and invite me into your parlor? You aren’t a bit polite.”
“Well, come along then, Hepsey; but the parlor aint just in apple-pie order, as you might say. Things are mussed up a bit.” He looked at her suspiciously.
When they entered the parlor Mrs. Burke gazed about in a critical sort of way.
“Jonathan Jackson, if you don’t get married again before long I don’t know what’ll become of you,” she remarked, as she wrote her name with the end of her 64 finger in the dust on the center-table. “Why don’t you open the parlor occasionally and let the air in? It smells that musty in here I feel as if I was attendin’ your wife’s funeral all over again.”
“Well, of course you know we never did use the parlor much, ’cept there was a funeral in the family, or you called, or things like that.”
“Thank you; but even so, you might put things away occasionally, and not leave them scattered all over the place.”
“What’s the use? I never can find anything when it’s where it belongs; but if it’s left just where I drop it, I know right where it is when I want it.”
“That’s a man’s argument. Sakes alive! The least you could do would be to shut your bureau drawers.”
“What’s the use shuttin’ bureau drawers when you’ve got to open ’em again ’fore long?” Jonathan asked. “It just makes so much more trouble; and there’s trouble enough in this world, anyway.”
“You wouldn’t dare let things go like this when Sarah was livin’.”
“No,” Jonathan replied sadly, “but there’s some advantages in bein’ a widower. Of course I don’t mean no disrespect to Sarah, but opinions will differ about some things. She’d never let me go up the 65 front stairs without takin’ my boots off, so as not to soil the carpet; and when she died and the relatives tramped up and down reckless like, I almost felt as if it was wicked. For a fact, I did.”
“Well, I always told Sarah she was a slave to dust; I believe that dust worried her a lot more than her conscience, poor soul. I should think that Mary McGuire would tidy up for you a little bit once in a while.”
“Well, Mary does the best she knows how. But I like her goin’ better than comin’. The fact is, a man of my age can’t live alone always, Hepsey. It’s a change to live this way, till––”
“Oh, heaven save the mark! I can’t stay here talkin’ all day; but I’ll tidy up a bit before I go, if you don’t mind, Jonathan. You go on with what you call your sewin’.”
“Go ahead, Hepsey. You can do anything you like,” he replied, beaming upon her.
Mrs. Burke opened the blinds and windows, shook up the pillows on the lounge, straightened the furniture, dusted off the chairs and opened the door to the porch. She made a flying trip to the garden, and returned with a big bunch of flowers which she placed in a large glass vase on the mantel. Then she hung Jonathan’s dressing gown over the back of a chair, 66 and put his slippers suggestively near at hand. In a few moments she had transformed the whole appearance of the room, giving it a look of homelike coziness which had long been foreign to it.
“There now, Jonathan! That’s better, isn’t it?”
Jonathan sighed profoundly as he replied:
“It certainly is, Hepsey; it certainly is. I wonder why a man can’t do that kind of thing like a woman can? He knows somethin’s wrong, but he can’t tell what it is.”
Hepsey had almost forgotten her errand; but now that her work was done it came back to her with sudden force; so, puckering up her lips and scowling severely at the carpet, she began:
“The fact is, Jonathan, I didn’t come over here to dust the parlor or to jolly you. I’ve come to have a confidential talk with you about a matter of great importance.”
“What is it, Hepsey?”
“Matrimony.”
Jonathan started eagerly, and colored with self-conscious embarrassment; and after clearing his throat, nervously inquired:
“Did you think of contemplatin’ matrimony again, Hepsey?—though this ’aint leap year.”
“I, contemplate matrimony? Oh, land of Gideon, 67 no. It’s about some one else. Don’t get scared. I’m no kidnapper!”
“Well, who is it, then?” Jonathan inquired, with a touch of disappointment.
“My adopted son.”
“You don’t say! I’ve heard rumors about Maxwell and Virginia Bascom; but I didn’t take no stock in ’em, knowin’ Virginia.”
“Virginia hasn’t nothin’ to do with it.”
“Well, who has then, for land’s sake!”
“I don’t know the girl’s name; but I saw her picture on his mantelpiece yesterday mornin’, and I’ve had my suspicions for some time.”
“Well, I suppose his marryin’ ’aint none of our business anyway, be it?”
“Yes, it is our business; if he’s goin’ to get married, the rectory’s got to be fixed over a whole lot ’fore it’s fit to live in. You know the Senior Warden won’t lift his finger, and you’ve got to help me do it.”
Jonathan sighed profoundly, knowing from past experience that Hepsey’s word carried more weight than all the vestry.
“I suppose I have, if you say so, Hepsey.”
“Yes sir, you’ve got to help me do it. No decent girl is goin’ into that house as it is, with my consent. It’s the worst old rat-trap I ever saw. I’ve got the 68 key, and I’m goin’ through it this afternoon, and then I’m goin’ to plan what ought to be done.”
“But it seems to me you’re venturin’ some. You don’t know they’re goin’ to be married.”
“No, but all the symptoms point that way, and we’ve got to be prepared for it.”
“But the people round town seem to think that Virginia has a first mortgage on the rector already.”
“No doubt she thinks she has; but it ’aint true. He’s made a blunder, though, not announcin’ his engagement, and I’m goin’ to tell him so the first chance I get. I don’t see why he should air his private affairs all over the town, but if he don’t announce his engagement before long, Virginia Bascom’ll make an awful row when he does.”
“Yes, and to the best of my knowledge and belief this’ll be her fifth row.”
“Well, you meet me at the rectory at two o’clock sharp.”
“But we ought to consult the vestry first,” the Junior Warden cautioned her.
“What for, I’d like to know?”
“’Cause they are the trustees of the property.”
“Then why don’t they ’tend to the property? The vestry are a lot of––” 69
“Sh! Hepsey, be careful. I’ll be there, I’ll be there!”
Mrs. Burke rose and started for the door; but Jonathan called out to her:
“Hepsey, can’t you stay to dinner? I’d like awful well to have you. It would seem so nice and homelike to see you sittin’ opposite me at the table.”
“Am I to consider this a proposal of marriage, Jonathan?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought of it in that light; but if you would, I’d be mighty thankful.”
But Hepsey was beating her retreat.
Jonathan stood for a minute or two in the middle of the room and looked very sober. Slowly he took off his coat and put on his dressing gown. Then he sat down, and cautiously put his feet in another chair. Next he lighted a cigar—gazing about the room as if his late wife might appear at any moment as an avenging deity, and drag him into the kitchen where he belonged. But nothing happened, and he began to feel a realization of his independence. He sat and thought for a long time, and a mighty hunger of the heart overwhelmed him. Before he knew it, a tear or two had fallen on the immaculate carpet; and then, suddenly recollecting himself, he stood up, saying to himself—such is the consistency of man: 70
“Sarah was a good soul accordin’ to her lights; but she’s dead, and I must confess I’m powerful reconciled. Hepsey Burke’s different. I wonder if––”
But he put he thought away from him with a “get thee behind me” abruptness, and putting on his coat, went out to water the stock.
“Hm!” Mrs. Burke remarked to Maxwell abruptly one day during supper. “We haven’t had a missionary tea since you came, and I think it’s high time we did.”
“What sort of a missionary tea do you mean?” the parson inquired.
“Well,” Mrs. Burke responded, “our missionary teas combine different attractions. We get together and look over each other’s clothes; that’s the first thing; then some one reads a paper reportin’ how 72 things is goin’ in Zanzibar, or what’s doin’ in Timbuctoo. Then we look over the old clothes sent in for missionaries, mend ’em up, and get ’em ready to send off. Then we have tea and cake. I’ve had my misgivin’ for some time that perhaps we cared more for the tea and cake than we did for the heathen; but of course I put such a wicked thought aside. If you value your reputation for piety, don’t you ever speak of a missionary tea here except in a whisper.”
“But I suppose the tea helps to get people together and be more sociable?”
“Certainly. The next best thing to religion is a cup of strong tea and a frosted cake, to make us country people friends. Both combined can’t be beat. But you ought to see the things that have been sent in this last week for the missionary box. There’s a smoking jacket, two pairs of golf-trousers, several pairs of mismated gloves, a wonderful lot of undarned stockings, bonnets and underclothes to burn, two jackets and a bathin’ suit. I wonder what people think missionaries are doin’ most of the time!”
On the day appointed for the missionary tea the ladies were to assemble at Thunder Cliff at four o’clock; and when Maxwell came home, before the advent of the first guest, he seemed somewhat depressed; and Mrs. Burke inquired: 73
“Been makin’ calls on your parishioners?”
“Yes, I have made a few visits.”
“Now you must look more cheerful, or somebody’ll suspect that you don’t always find parish calls the joy of your life.”
“It’s so difficult to find subjects of conversation that they are interested in. I simply couldn’t draw out Mrs. Snodgrass, for instance.”
“Well, when you’ve lived in the country as long as I have, you’ll find that the one unfailin’ subject of interest is symptoms—mostly dyspepsy and liver complaint. If you had known enough to have started right with Elmira Snodgrass, she would have thawed out at once. Elmira is always lookin’ for trouble as the sparks fly upwards, or thereabouts. She’d crawl through a barbed wire fence if she couldn’t get at it any other way. She always chews a pill on principle, and then she calls it a dispensation of Providence, and wonders why she was ever born to be tormented.”
“In that case,” laughed Maxwell, “I’d better get some medical books and read up on symptoms. By the by, is there any particular program for this missionary meeting, Mrs. Burke?”
“Yes, Virginia Bascom’s goin’ to read a paper called ‘The Christian Mother as a Missionary in her own Household.’ To be sure, Ginty’s no Christian 74 Mother, or any other kind of a mother; but she’s as full of enthusiasm as a shad is of bones. She’d bring up any child while you wait, and not charge a cent. There goes the bell, so please excuse me.”
The guests were received by Mrs. Burke. Miss Bascom entered the parlor with a portentous bundle of manuscript under her arm, and greeted Donald with a radiant smile. Pulling a pansy from a bunch in her dress, she adjusted it in his buttonhole with the happy shyness of a young kitten chasing its tail. After the others had assembled, they formed a circle to inspect the clothing which had been sent in. There was a general buzz of conversation.
As they were busily going through the garments, Virginia remarked, “Are all these things to go to the missionaries at Tien Tsin?” and she adjusted her lorgnette to inspect the heap.
“Yes,” Mrs. Burke responded wearily, “and I hope they’ll get what comfort they can out of ’em.”
“You don’t seem to be very appreciative, Mrs. Burke,” Virginia reproved.
“Well, I suppose I ought to be satisfied,” Hepsey replied. “But it does seem as if most people give to the Lord what they can’t use for themselves any longer—as they would to a poor relation that’s worthy, but not to be coddled by too much charity.” 75
“I think these things are quite nice enough for the missionaries,” Virginia retorted. “They are thankful for anything.”
“Yes, I know,” Mrs. Burke replied calmly. “Missionaries and their families have no business to have any feelings that can’t be satisfied with second-hand clothes, and no end of good advice on how to spend five cents freely but not extravagantly.”
“But don’t you believe in sending them useful things?” Virginia asked loftily.
“So I do; but I’d hate that word ‘useful’ if I was a missionary’s wife.”
“Might I inquire,” asked Miss Bascom meekly, “what you would send?”
“Certainly! I’d send a twenty-five-cent scent bag, made of silk and filled with patchouli-powder,” said Hepsey, squarely.
“Well,” Virginia added devoutly, “satchet bags may be well enough in their place; but they won’t feed missionaries, or clothe them, or save souls, you know, Mrs. Burke.”
“Did anybody say they would?” Mrs. Burke inquired. “I shouldn’t particularly care to see missionaries clothed in sachet bags myself; the smell might drive the heathen to desperation. But do we always limit our spending money to necessary clothes and 76 food? The truth is, we all of us spend anything we like as long as it goes on our backs, or down our throats; but the moment it comes to supportin’ missionaries we think ’em worldly and graspin’ if they show any ambition beyond second-hand clothes.”
“Do you live up to your preachin’, Mrs. Burke?” a little sallow-faced woman inquired from a dark corner of the room.
“Oh, no; it hits me just as hard as anybody else, as Martin Luther said. But I’ve got a proposition to make: if you’ll take these things you brought, back with you, and wear ’em for a week just as they are, and play you’re the missionaries, I’ll take back all I’ve said.”
As, however, there was no response to this challenge, the box was packed, and the cover nailed down.
(It is perhaps no proper part of this story to add, that its opening on the other side of the world was attended by the welcome and surprising fragrance of patchouli, emanating from a little silk sachet secreted among the more workaday gifts.)
The ladies then adjourned to the front piazza, where the supper was served.
When the dishes had been cleared away, the guests adjusted their chairs and assumed attitudes of expectant 77 attention while Virginia stood up and shyly unrolled her manuscript, with a placid, self-conscious smile on her countenance. She apologized for her youth and inexperience, with a moving glance towards her pastor, and then got down to business. She began with the original and striking remark that it was the chief glory and function of woman to be a home-maker. She continued with something to the effect that the woman who forms the character of her children in the sanctity of the home-life rules the destinies of the world. Then she made a fetching allusion to the “Mother of the Gracchi,” and said something about jewels. Nobody knew who the “Gracchi” were, but they supposed that they must be some relatives of Virginia’s who lived in Boston.
She asserted that the modern methods of bringing up children were all wrong. She drew a striking picture of the ideal home in which children always stood modestly and reverently by their parents’ chairs, consumed with anxiety to be of some service to their elders. They were always to be immaculately neat in their attire, and gentle in their ways. The use of slang was quite beneath them.
These ideal children were always to spend their evenings at home in the perusal of instructive books, and the pursuit of useful knowledge. Then, when 78 half-past seven arrived, they were to rise spontaneously and promptly, and bid their parents an affectionate good-night, and retire to their rooms, where, having said their prayers and recited the golden text, they were to get into bed.
Portions of Virginia’s essay were quite moving. Speaking of the rewards which good mothers reap, in the virtues and graces of their dutiful offspring, she said:
“What mother does not feel a thrill of exquisite rapture as she fondly gazes into the depths of her baby’s eyes and sees there the budding promise of glorious womanhood. What mother does not watch the development of her little son with wondering pride, as she notes his manly, simple ways, his gentle reverence, his tender, modest behavior. What mother––”
Here Virginia came to an abrupt stop, for there was a terrible racket somewhere overhead on the piazza roof; a rope was suddenly dropped over the edge of the eaves, and almost immediately a pair of very immodestly bare legs were lowered into view, followed by the rest of Nickey Burke’s person, attired in his nightshirt. It was the work of a moment for the nimble boy to slide down the rope onto the ground. But, as he landed on his feet, finding himself 79 in the august presence of the missionary circle, he remarked “Gee Whitaker bee’s wax!” and prudently took to his heels, and sped around the house as if he had been shot out of a gun.
Several segments of the circle giggled violently. The essayist, though very red, made a brave effort to ignore the highly indecorous interruption, and so continued with trembling tones:
“What more beautiful and touching thing is there, than the innocent, unsullied modesty of childhood? One might almost say––”
But she never said it, for here again she was forced to pause while another pair of immodest legs appeared over the eaves, much fatter and shorter than the preceding pair. These belonged to Nickey’s boon-companion, the gentle Oliver Wendell Jones. The rest of O. W. J. followed in due time; and, quite ignorant of what awaited him, he began his wriggling descent. Most unfortunately for him, the hem of his nightshirt caught on a large nail in the eaves of the roof; and after a frantic, fruitless, and fearful effort to disconnect himself, he hung suspended in the breeze for one awful moment, like a painted cherub on a Christmas tree, while his mother, recognizing her offspring, rose to go to his assistance.
Then there was a frantic yell, a terrible ripping 80 sound, and Oliver Wendell was seen to drop to the ground clad in the sleeves and the front breadth of his shirt, while the entire back of it, from the collar down, waved triumphantly aloft from the eaves. Oliver Wendell Jones picked himself up, unhurt, but much frightened, and very angry: presenting much the aspect of a punctured tire. Then suddenly discovering the proximity of the missionary circle and missing the rear elevation of his shirt about the same time, in the horror and mortification of the moment, he lost his head entirely. Notwithstanding the protests of his pursuing mother, without waiting for his clothes, he fled, “anywhere, anywhere out of the world,” bawling with wrath and chagrin.
The entire circumference of the missionary circle now burst into roars of laughter. His mother quickly overtook and captured Oliver, tying her apron around his neck as a concession to the popular prejudice against “the altogether.” The gravity of the missionary circle was so thoroughly demoralized that it was impossible to restore order; and Miss Bascom, in the excess of her mortification, stuffed the rest of her manuscript, its eloquent peroration undelivered, into her bag.