CHAPTER I
HEPSEY BURKE
The noisy, loose-jointed train pulled out of the station, leaving behind it a solitary young man, enveloped in smoke and cinders. In the middle of the platform stood a little building with a curb roof, pointed at both ends like a Noah’s Ark; and the visitor felt that if he could only manage to lift up one side of the roof he would find the animals “two by two,” together with the cylindrical Noah and the rest of his family. There was no one in sight but the station-master, who called out from the ticket office: 12
“Did you want to go to the village? The ’bus won’t be down till the next train: but maybe you can ride up on the ice wagon.”
“Thanks,” the stranger replied. “I think I’ll wait for the ’bus, if it’s not too long.”
“Twenty minutes or so, if Sam don’t have to collect the passengers goin’ West, and wait for a lot o’ women that forget their handbags and have to get out and go back after ’em.”
The new arrival was good to look at—a handsome, well-built fellow of about twenty-five, dressed in a gray suit which was non-committal as to his profession, with a clean-shaven face which bore the unmistakable stamp of good breeding and unlimited good-nature. He tilted his suit-case on end and sat down on it; then he filled his briar pipe, crossed his legs, and looked about to take stock of the situation. He gazed about curiously; but there was nothing of any special interest in sight, except, painfully conspicuous on the face of a grass terrace, the name of the village picked out in large letters composed of oyster-shells and the bottoms of protruding beer bottles stuck in the ground. The stranger found himself wondering where a sufficient number of bottles could be found to complete such an elaborate pattern. The only other marked feature of the landscape in the 13 way of artistic decoration was the corrugated base of an old stove, painted white, which served as a flower vase. From this grew a huge bunch of scarlet geraniums, staring defiantly, and seeming fairly to sizzle in the hot, vibrant atmosphere, which was as still as the calm of a moon-lit night.
As the man on the suit-case gazed about him at the general air of dilapidation and neglect characteristic of a country town on the down grade, and recalled the congenial life of the city which he had left, with all its busy competition, with all its absorbing activities, the companionship of the men he loved, and the restful, inspiring intimacy with a certain young woman, he felt, for the moment, a pang of homesickness. If the station were a sample of the village itself, then life in such a place must be deadening to every finer sensibility and ambition; it must throw a man back on himself and make him morbid.
The momentary depression was relieved by the station-master, who suddenly appeared at the door of the Ark and called out:
“Here comes Hepsey Burke. Maybe she’ll take you up; that’ll be a dum sight more comfortable than Lipkin’s ’bus.”
There was nothing to be seen but a cloud of dust, advancing with the rapidity of a whirlwind along the 14 highway, from which there gradually emerged a team and a “democrat,” containing a woman, a boy about fourteen, and a middle-aged man.
As the turn-out drew up, the man took the reins from Mrs. Burke, who jumped out of the wagon with remarkable agility for one of her size and years, and, nodding to the station-master, came on to the platform.
Hepsey Burke was rather stout; and the lines from her nose to the corners of her mouth, and the wisps of gray hair which had blown about her face, indicated that she had passed the meridian of life. At first glance there was nothing striking about her appearance; but there was a subtle expression about the mouth, a twinkle about the large gray eyes behind the glasses she wore, that indicated a sense of humor which had probably been a God-send to her. She was strong and well, and carried with her an air of indomitable conviction that things worked themselves out all right in the long run.
The boy was obviously her son, and in spite of his overalls and frayed straw hat, he was a handsome little chap. He looked at you shyly from under a crop of curly hair, with half closed eyes, giving you the impression that you were being “sized up” by a very discriminating individual; and when he smiled, 15 as he did frequently, he revealed a set of very white and perfect teeth. When he was silent, there was a little lifting of the inner brow which gave him a thoughtful look quite beyond his years; and you were sadly mistaken if you imagined that you could form a correct impression of Nicholas Burke at the first interview.
The man wore a sandy beard, but no mustache, and had a downcast, meekly submissive air, probably the depressing effect of many years of severe domestic discipline.
Mrs. Burke was evidently surprised to find no one there but the man on the suit-case; but as he rose and lifted his hat, she hesitated a moment, exclaiming:
“I beg pardon, but I was lookin’ for a parson who was to arrive on this train. You haven’t seen anything that looked like a parson, have you? You can generally spot ’em every time.”
The young man smiled.
“Well, no; I seem to be the only passenger who got off the train; and though I’m a clergyman, you don’t seem to find it easy to ‘spot’ me.”
Mrs. Burke, with a characteristic gesture, pulled her glasses forward with a jerk and settled them firmly back again on the bridge of her nose. She surveyed the speaker critically as she questioned: 16
“But you don’t seem to show the usual symptoms—collar buttoned behind, and all that.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Madam, but I never travel in clerical uniform. Can’t afford it.”
“Well, you’ve got more sense than most parsons, if I may say so. Maybe you’re the one I’m lookin’ for: Mr. Donald Maxwell.”
“That is my name, and I am sure you must be Mrs. Burke.”
“Sure thing!”—shaking his outstretched hand heartily. “Now you come right along with me, Mr. Maxwell, and get into the democrat and make yourself comfortable.” They walked round to the front of the station. “This, Mr. Maxwell, is Jonathan Jackson, the Junior Warden; and this is my son Nicholas, generally known as Nickey, except when I am about to spank him. Say, Jonathan, you just h’ist that trunk into the back of the wagon, and Nickey, you take the parson’s suit-case.”
The Junior Warden grinned good-naturedly as he shook hands with the new arrival. But Hepsey continued briskly: “Now, Jonathan, you get into the back seat with Nickey, and Mr. Maxwell, you sit with me on the front seat so that I can talk to you. Jonathan means well, but his talk’s limited to crops and symptoms, even if he is an old friend, my next door neighbor, and the Junior Warden.” 17
Jonathan obeyed orders; and, as he got into the wagon, winked at Maxwell and remarked:
“You see we have to take a back seat when Hepsey drives; and we have to hold on with both hands. She’s a pacer.”
“Don’t you let him frighten you, Mr. Maxwell,” Hepsey replied. “Jonathan would probably hold on with both hands if he lay flat on his back in a ten-acre lot. He’s just that fearless and enterprisin’.”
Then, starting the horses with a cluck, she turned to Maxwell and continued:
“I guess I didn’t tell you I was glad to see you; but I am. I got your note tellin’ me when you were comin’, but I didn’t get down to the station in time, as the men are killin’ hogs to-day, and until I get the in’ards off my hands, I haven’t time for anything.”
“I am sorry to have put you to the trouble of coming at all. I’m sure it’s very good of you.”
“No trouble; not the least. I generally look after the visitin’ parsons, and I’m quite used to it. You can get used to ’most anything.”
Maxwell laughed as he responded:
“You speak as if it weren’t always a pleasure, Mrs. Burke.”
“Well, I must admit that there are parsons and parsons. They are pretty much of a lottery, and it is 18 generally my luck to draw blanks. But don’t you worry about that; you don’t look a bit like a parson.”
“I think that’s a rather doubtful compliment.”
“Oh, well, you know what I mean. There are three kinds of people in the world; men, women, and parsons; and I like a parson who is a man first, and a parson afterwards; not one who is a parson first, and a man two weeks Tuesday come Michaelmas.”
Donald laughed: he felt sure he was going to make friends with this shrewd yet open-hearted member of his flock. The pace slackened as the road began a steep ascent. Mrs. Burke let the horses walk up the hill, the slackened reins held in one hand; in the other lolled the whip, which now and then she raised, tightening her grasp upon it as if for use, on second thoughts dropping it to idleness again and clucking to the horses instead. It was typical of her character—the means of chastisement held handy, but in reserve, and usually displaced by other methods of suasion.
As they turned down over the brow of the hill they drove rapidly, and as the splendid landscape of rolling country, tilled fields and pasture, stretching on to distant wooded mountains, spread out before him, Maxwell exclaimed enthusiastically, drawing a deep breath of the exhilarating air: 19
“How beautiful it is up here! You must have a delightful climate.”
“Well,” she replied, “I don’t know as we have much climate to speak of. We have just a job lot of weather, and we take it regular—once after each meal, once before goin’ to bed, and repeat if necessary before mornin’. I won’t say but it’s pretty good medicine, at that. There’d be no show for the doctor, if it wasn’t fashionable to invite him in at the beginnin’ and the end of things.”
Jonathan, who up to this time had been silent, felt it incumbent to break into the conversation a bit, and interposed:
“I suppose you’ve never been up in these parts before?”
“No,” Maxwell responded; “but I’ve always intended to come up during the season for a little hunting some time. Was there much sport last year?”
“Well, I can’t say as there was, and I can’t say as there wasn’t. The most I recollect was that two city fellers shot a guide and another feller. But then it was a poor season last fall, anyway.”
Maxwell gave the Junior Warden a quick look, but there was not a trace of a smile on his face, and Hepsey chuckled. Keeping her eyes on the horses 20 as they trotted along at a smart pace over a road none too smooth for comfortable riding, she remarked casually:
“I suppose the Bishop told you what we wanted in the shape of a parson, didn’t he?”
“Well, he hinted a few things.”
“Yes; we’re awful modest, like most country parishes that don’t pay their rector more than enough to get his collars laundered. We want a man who can preach like the Archbishop of Canterbury, and call on everybody twice a week, and know just when anyone is sick without bein’ told a word about it. He’s got to be an awful good mixer, to draw the young people like a porous plaster, and fill the pews. He must have lots of sociables, and fairs, and things to take the place of religion; and he must dress well, and live like a gentleman on the salary of a book-agent. But if he brings city ways along with him and makes us feel like hayseeds, he won’t be popular.”
“That’s a rather large contract!” Maxwell replied with a smile.
“Yes, but think what we’re goin’ to pay you: six hundred dollars a year, and you’ll have to raise most of it yourself, just for the fun of it.”
At this point the Junior Warden interrupted: 21
“Now, Hepsey, what’s the use of upsettin’ the young man at the start. He’s–”
“Never mind, Jonathan. I’m tellin’ the truth, anyway. You see,” she continued, “most people think piety’s at a low ebb unless we’re gettin’ up some kind of a holy show all the time, to bring people together that wouldn’t meet anywhere else if they saw each other first. Then when they’ve bought a chance on a pieced bed-quilt, or paid for chicken-pie at a church supper, they go home feelin’ real religious, believin’ that if there’s any obligation between them and heaven, it isn’t on their side, anyway. Do you think you’re goin’ to fill the bill, Mr. Maxwell?”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Maxwell. “Of course I might find myself possessed of a talent for inventing new and original entertainments each week; but I’m afraid that you’re a bit pessimistic, Mrs. Burke, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. There’s a mighty fine side to life in a country parish sometimes, where the right sort of a man is in charge. The people take him as one of their family, you know, and borrow eggs of his wife as easy as of their next door neighbor. But the young reverends expect too much of a country parish, and break their hearts sometimes because they can’t make us tough old critters all over while you wait. 22 Poor things! I’m sorry for the average country parson, and a lot sorrier for his wife.”
“Well, don’t you worry about me; I’m well and strong, and equal to anything, I imagine. I don’t believe in taking life too seriously; it’s bad for the nerves and digestion. It will be an entirely new experience for me, and I’m sure I shall find the people interesting.”
“Yes, but what if they aren’t your kind? I suppose you might find hippopotamuses interestin’ for a while, but that’s no reason you should like to live with ’em. Anyway, don’t mind what people say. They aint got nothin’ to think about, so they make up by talkin’ about it, especially when it happens to be a new parson. We’ve been havin’ odds and ends of parsons from the remnant counter now for six months or more; and that’s enough to kill any parish. I believe that if the angel Gabriel should preach for us, half the congregation would object to the cut of his wings, and the other half to the fit of his halo. We call for all the virtues of heaven, and expect to get ’em for seven-forty-nine.”
“Well—I shall have to look to you and the Wardens to help me out,” he said. “You must help me run things, until I know the ropes.”
“Oh! Bascom will run things for you, if you let 23 him do the runnin’,” she replied, cracking her whip. “You’ll need to get popular first with him and his—then you’ll have it easy.”
Maxwell pondered these local words of wisdom, and recalled the Bishop’s warning that Bascom, the Senior Warden, had not made life easy for his predecessors, and his superior’s exhortation to firmness and tact, to the end that he, Maxwell, should hold his own, while taking his Senior Warden along with him. The Senior Warden was evidently a power in the land.
They had driven about a mile and a half when the wagon turned off the road, and drew up by a house standing some distance back from it; getting down, Mrs. Burke exclaimed:
“Welcome to Thunder Cliff, Mr. Maxwell. Thunder Cliff’s the name of the place, you know. All the summer visitors in Durford have names for their houses; so I thought I’d call my place Thunder Cliff, just to be in the style.”
Jonathan Jackson, who had kept a discreet silence during Hepsey’s pointers concerning his colleague, the Senior Warden, interjected:
“There ’aint no cliff, Hepsey, and you know it. I always tell her, Mr. Maxwell, ’taint appropriate a bit.”
“Jonathan, you ’aint no Englishman, and there’s no 24 use pretendin’ that you are. Some day when I have a couple of hours to myself, I’ll explain the whole matter to you. There isn’t any cliff, and the house wants paintin’ and looks like thunder. Isn’t that reason enough to go on with? Now, Mr. Maxwell, you come in and make yourself perfectly at home.”
CHAPTER II
GOSSIP
That afternoon Maxwell occupied himself in unpacking his trunks and arranging his room. As the finishing touch, he drew out of a leather case an exquisite miniature of a beautiful girl, which he placed on the mantelpiece, and at which he gazed for a long time with a wistful light in his fine gray eyes. Then he threw himself on the lounge, and pulling a letter from his inner pocket, read:
“Don’t worry about expenses, dear. Six hundred 26 is quite enough for two; we shall be passing rich! You must remember that, although I am a ‘college girl,’ I am not a helpless, extravagant creature, and I know how to economize. I am sure we shall be able to make both ends meet. With a small house, rent free, a bit of ground for a vegetable garden, and plenty of fresh air, we can accomplish almost anything, and be supremely happy together. And then, when you win advancement, as of course you will very soon, we shall appreciate the comforts all the more from the fact that we were obliged to live the simple life for a while.
“You can’t possibly imagine how I miss you, sweetheart. Do write as soon as possible and tell me all about Durford. If I could just have one glimpse of you in your new quarters—but that would only be a wretched aggravation; so I keep saying to myself ‘Some day, some day,’ and try to be patient. God bless you and good-by.”
Donald folded the letter carefully, kissed it, and tucked it away in his pocket. Clasping his hands behind his head, he gazed at the ceiling.
“I wonder if I’d better tell Mrs. Burke about Betty. I don’t care to pass myself off as a free man in a parish like this. And yet, after all, it’s none of their 27 business at present. I think I’d better wait and find out if there’s any possibility of making her happy here.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Talk of angels,” murmured Maxwell, and hurriedly returned the miniature to its case before opening the door to Mrs. Burke, who came to offer assistance.
“Don’t bother to fuss for me,” she said as he hastened to remove some books and clothes from a chair, so that she might sit down. “I only came up for a moment to see if there was anything I could do. Think you can make yourself pretty comfortable here? I call this room ‘the prophet’s chamber,’ you know, because it’s where I always put the visitin’ parsons.”
“They’re lucky,” he replied. “This room is just delightful with that jolly old fireplace, its big dormer windows, and the view over the river and the hills beyond: I shall be very comfortable.”
“Well, I hope so. You know I don’t think any livin’-room is complete without a fireplace. Next to an old friend, a bright wood fire’s the best thing I know to keep one from getting lonesome.”
“Yes—that and a good cigar.”
“Well, I haven’t smoked in some time now,” Mrs. 28 Burke replied, smiling, “so I can’t say. What a lot of things you’ve got!”
“Yes, more than I thought I had.”
“I do love to see a man tryin’ to put things to rights. He never knows where anything belongs. What an awful lot of books you’ve got! I suppose you’re just chuck full of learnin’, clean up to your back teeth; but we won’t any of us know the difference. Most city parsons preach about things that are ten miles over the heads of us country people. You can’t imagine how little thinkin’ most of us do up here. We’re more troubled with potato bugs than we are with doubts; and you’ll have to learn a lot about us before you really get down to business, I guess.”
“Yes, I expect to learn more from you than you will from me. That’s one of the reasons why I wanted to come so far out in the country.”
“Hm! I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
Mrs. Burke adjusted her glasses and gazed interestedly about the room at some pictures and decorations which Maxwell had placed in position, and inquired:
“Who is the plaster lady and gentleman standin’ on the mantelpiece?”
“The Venus de Milo, and the Hermes of Praxiteles.” 29
“Well, you know, I just can’t help preferrin’ ladies and gentlemen with arms and legs, myself. I suppose it’s real cultivated to learn to like parts of people done in marble. Maybe when I go down to the city next fall to buy my trousseau, I’ll buy a few plasters myself, to make the house look more cheerful-like.”
Maxwell caught at the word “trousseau,” and as Mrs. Burke had spoken quite seriously he asked:
“Are you going to be married, Mrs. Burke?”
“No such thing! But when a handsome young widow like me lives alone, frisky and sixty-ish, with six lonesome, awkward widowers in the same school district, you can never tell what might happen any minute; ‘In time of peace prepare for war,’ as the paper says.”
Maxwell laughed reassuringly.
“I don’t see why you laugh,” Mrs. Burke responded, chuckling to herself. “’Taint polite to look surprised when a woman says she’s a-goin’ to get married. Every woman under ninety-eight has expectations. While there’s life there’s hope that some man will make a fool of himself. But unless I miss my guess, you don’t catch me surrenderin’ my independence. As long as I have enough to eat and am well, I’m contented.” 30
“You certainly look the picture of health, Mrs. Burke.”
“Oh, yes! as well as could be expected, when I’m just recoverin’ from a visit from Mary Sam.”
“What sort of a visitor is that?” asked Maxwell, laughing.
“Mary Sam is my sister-in-law. She spends a month with me every year on her own invitation. She is what you’d call a hardy annual. She is the most stingy and narrow-minded woman I ever saw. The bark on the trees hangs in double box-plaits as compared with Mary Sam. But I got the best of her last year. While I was cleanin’ the attic I came across the red pasteboard sign with ‘Scarlet Fever’ painted on it, that the Board of Health put on the house when Nickey had the fever three years ago. The very next day I was watchin’ the ’bus comin’ up Main Street, when I saw Mary Sam’s solferino bonnet bobbin’ up and down inside. Before she got to the house, I sneaked out and pinned up the sign, right by the front door. She got onto the piazza, bag, baggage, and brown paper bundles, before she caught sight of it. Then I wish you could have seen her face: I wouldn’t have believed so much could be done with so few features.”
“She didn’t linger long?” laughed the parson, 31 who continued arranging his books while his visitor chatted.
“Linger? Well, not exactly. She turned tail and run lickety-spindle back for the ’bus as if she had caught sight of a subscription paper for foreign missions. I heard Jim Anderson, who drives the ’bus, snicker as he helped her in again; but he didn’t give me away. Jim and I are good friends. But when she got home she wrote to Sally Ramsdale to ask how Nickey was; and Sally, not bein’ on to the game, wrote back that there was nothin’ the matter with Nickey that she knew of. Then Mary Sam wrote me the impudentest letter I ever got; and she came right back, and stayed two months instead of one, just to be mean. But that sign’s done good service since. I’ve scared off agents and tramps by the score. I always hang it in the parlor window when I’m away from home.”
“But suppose your house caught fire while you were away?”
“Well, I’ve thought of that; but there’s worse things than fire if your insurance is all right.”
Mrs. Burke relapsed into silence for a while, until Maxwell opened a box of embroidered stoles, which he spread out on the bed for her inspection.
“My! but aren’t those beautiful! I never saw the 32 like before. Where did you get ’em?”
“They were made by the ‘Sisters of St. Paul’ in Boston.”
Hepsey gazed at the stoles a long time in silence, handling them daintily; then she remarked:
“I used to embroider some myself. Would you like to see some of it?”
“Certainly, I should be delighted to see it,” Donald responded; and Mrs. Burke went in search of her work.
Presently she returned and showed Maxwell a sample of her skill—doubtless intended for a cushion-cover. To be sure it was a bit angular and impressionistic. Like Browning’s poems and Turner’s pictures, it left interesting room for speculation. To begin with, there was a dear little pink dog in the foreground, having convulsions on purple grass. In the middle-distance was a lay-figure in orange, picking scarlet apples from what appeared to be a revolving clothes-horse blossoming profusely at the ends of each beam. A little blue brook gurgled merrily up the hill, and disappeared down the other side only to reappear again as a blue streak in an otherwise crushed-strawberry sky. A pumpkin sun was disappearing behind emerald hills, shooting up equidistant yellow rays, like the spokes of a cart-wheel. Underneath 33 this striking composition was embroidered the dubious sentiment “There is no place like home.”
Maxwell examined carefully the square of cross-stitch wool embroidery, biting his lip; while Hepsey watched him narrowly, chuckling quietly to herself. Then she laughed heartily, and asked:
“Confess now; don’t you think it’s beautiful?”
Donald smiled broadly as he replied:
“It’s really quite wonderful. Did you do it yourself?”
“To be sure I did, when I was a little girl and we used to work in wool from samplers, and learn to do alphabets. I’m glad you appreciate it. If you would like to have me embroider anything for the church, don’t hesitate to ask me.” She busied herself examining the stoles again, and asked:
“How much did these things cost, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“I don’t know. They were given to me by a friend of mine, when I graduated from the Seminary.”
“Hm! a friend of yours, eh? She must think an awful lot of you.”
Hepsey gave Donald a sharp glance.
“I didn’t say it was a lady.”
“No, but your eyes and cheeks did. Well, it’s none of my business, and there’s no reason that I know of 34 why the Devil should have all the bright colors, and embroideries, and things. Are you High Church?”
Maxwell hesitated a moment and replied:
“What do you mean by ‘High Church?’”
“The last rector we had was awful high.” Hepsey smiled with reminiscent amusement.
“How so?”
“We suspected he didn’t wear no pants durin’ service.”
“How very extraordinary! Is that a symptom of ritualism?”
“Well, you see he wore a cassock under his surplice, and none of our parsons had ever done that before. The Senior Warden got real stirred up about it, and told Mr. Whittimore that our rectors always wore pants durin’ service. Mr. Whittimore pulled up his cassock and showed the Warden that he had his pants on. The Warden told him it was an awful relief to his mind, as he considered goin’ without pants durin’ service the enterin’ wedge for Popish tricks; and if things went on like that, nobody knew where we would land. Then some of the women got talkin’, and said that the rector practiced celibacy, and that some one should warn him that the parish wouldn’t stand for any more innovations, and he’d better look out. So one day, Virginia Bascom, the 35 Senior Warden’s daughter, told him what was being said about him. The parson just laughed at Ginty, and said that celibacy was his misfortune, not his fault; and that he hoped to overcome it in time. That puzzled her some, and she came to me and asked what celibacy was. When I told her it was staying unmarried, like St. Paul—my, but wasn’t she mad, though! You ought to have seen her face. She was so mortified that she wouldn’t speak to me for a week. Well, I guess I’ve gossiped enough for now. I must go and make my biscuits for supper. If I can help you any, just call out.”