In Which We Make the Acquaintance of Mayberry and a Portion of
Burgleston Bogs
We migrated to Mayberry the following Monday, as we had agreed to do.
Miss Morley went with us, of course. I secured a first-class apartment
for our party and the journey was a comfortable and quiet one. Our
invalid was too weak to talk a great deal even if she had wished, which
she apparently did not. Johnson, the groom, met us at Haddington on Hill
and we drove to the rectory. There Miss Morley, very tired and worn out,
was escorted to her room by Hephzy and Charlotte, the housemaid. She was
perfectly willing to remain in that room, in fact she did not leave it
for several days.
Meanwhile Hephzy and I were doing our best to become acquainted with our
new and novel mode of life. Hephzy took charge of the household and was,
in a way, quite in her element; in another way she was distinctly out of
it.
“I did think I was gettin' used to bein' waited on, Hosy,” she confided,
“but it looks as if I'll have to begin all over again. Managin' one
hired girl like Susanna was a job and I tell you I thought managin'
three, same as we've got here, would be a staggerer. But it isn't.
Somehow the kind of help over here don't seem to need managin'. They
manage me more than I do them. There's Mrs. Wigham, the cook. Mrs. Cole
told me she was a 'superior' person and I guess she is--at any rate,
she's superior to me in some things. She knows what a 'gooseberry fool'
is and I'm sure I don't. I felt like another kind of fool when she told
me she was goin' to make one, as a 'sweet,' for dinner to-night. As nigh
as I can make out it's a sort of gooseberry pie, but _I_ should never
have called a gooseberry pie a 'sweet'; a 'sour' would have been better,
accordin' to my reckonin'. However, all desserts over here are 'sweets'
and fruit is dessert. Then there's Charlotte, the housemaid, and Baker,
the 'between-maid'--between upstairs and down, I suppose that means--and
Grimmer, the gardener, and Johnson, the boy that takes care of the
horse. Each one of 'em seems to know exactly what their own job is and
just as exactly where it leaves off and t'other's job begins. I never
saw such obligin' but independent folks in my life. As for my own job,
that seems to be settin' still with my hands folded. Well, it's a brand
new one and it's goin' to take me one spell to get used to it.”
It seemed likely to be a “spell” before I became accustomed to my own
“job,” that of being a country gentleman with nothing to do but play the
part. When I went out to walk about the rectory garden, Grimmer touched
his hat. When, however, I ventured to pick a few flowers in that garden,
his expression of shocked disapproval was so marked that I felt I must
have made a dreadful mistake. I had, of course. Grimmer was in charge of
those flowers and if I wished any picked I was expected to tell him to
pick them. Picking them myself was equivalent to admitting that I was
not accustomed to having a gardener in my employ, in other words that
I was not a real gentleman at all. I might wait an hour for Johnson to
return from some errand or other and harness the horse; but I must on
no account save time by harnessing the animal myself. That sort of labor
was not done by the “gentry.” I should have lost caste with the servants
a dozen times during my first few days in the rectory were it not for
one saving grace; I was an American, and almost any peculiar thing was
expected of an American.
When I strolled along the village street the male villagers, especially
the older ones, touched their hats to me. The old women bowed or
courtesied. Also they invariably paused, when I had passed, to stare
after me. The group at the blacksmith shop--where the stone coping of
the low wall was worn in hollows by the generations of idlers who had
sat upon it, just as their descendants were sitting upon it
now--turned, after I had passed, to stare. There would be a pause in the
conversation, then an outburst of talk and laughter. They were talking
about the “foreigner” of course, and laughing at him. At the
tailor's, where I sent my clothes to be pressed, the tailor himself, a
gray-haired, round-shouldered antique, ventured an opinion concerning
those clothes. “That coat was not made in England, sir,” he said. “We
don't make 'em that way 'ere, sir. That's a bit foreign, that coat,
sir.”
Yes, I was a foreigner. It was hard to realize. In a way everything was
so homelike; the people looked like people I had known at home, their
faces were New England faces quite as much as they were old England.
But their clothes were just a little different, and their ways were
different, and a dry-goods store was a “draper's shop,” and a drug-store
was a “chemist's,” and candies were “sweeties” and a public school was a
“board school” and a boarding-school was a “public school.” And I might
be polite and pleasant to these people--persons out of my “class”--but I
must not be too cordial, for if I did, in the eyes of these very people,
I lost caste and they would despise me.
Yes, I was a foreigner; it was a queer feeling.
Coming from America and particularly from democratic Bayport, where
everyone is as good as anyone else provided he behaves himself, the
class distinction in Mayberry was strange at first. I do not mean that
there was not independence there; there was, among the poorest as well
as the richer element. Every male Mayberryite voted as he thought, I am
sure; and was self-respecting and independent. He would have resented
any infringement of his rights just as Englishmen have resented such
infringements and fought against them since history began. But what I am
trying to make plain is that political equality and social equality were
by no means synonymous. A man was a man for 'a' that, but when he was
a gentleman he was 'a' that' and more. And when he was possessed of
a title he was revered because of that title, or the title itself was
revered. The hatter in London where I purchased a new “bowler,” had
a row of shelves upon which were boxes containing, so I was told, the
spare titles of eminent customers. And those hat-boxes were lettered
like this: “The Right Hon. Col. Wainwright, V.C.,” “His Grace the Duke
of Leicester,” “Sir George Tupman, K.C.B.,” etc., etc. It was my first
impression that the hatter was responsible for thus proclaiming his
customers' titles, but one day I saw Richard, convoyed by Henry,
reverently bearing a suitcase into Bancroft's Hotel. And that suitcase
bore upon its side the inscription, in very large letters, “Lord Eustace
Stairs.” Then I realized that Lord Eustace, like the owners of the
hat-boxes, recognizing the value of a title, advertised it accordingly.
I laughed when I saw the suitcase and the hat-boxes. When I told Hephzy
about the latter she laughed, too.
“That's funny, isn't it,” she said. “Suppose the folks that have their
names on the mugs in the barber shop back home had 'em lettered 'Cap'n
Elkanah Crowell,' 'Judge the Hon. Ezra Salters,' 'The Grand Exalted
Sachem Order of Red Men George Kendrick.' How everybody would laugh,
wouldn't they. Why they'd laugh Cap'n Elkanah and Ezra and Kendrick out
of town.”
So they would have done--in Bayport--but not in Mayberry or London.
Titles and rank and class in England are established and accepted
institutions, and are not laughed at, for where institutions of that
kind are laughed at they soon cease to be. Hephzy summed it up pretty
well when she said:
“After all, it all depends on what you've been brought up to, doesn't
it, Hosy. Your coat don't look funny to you because you've always worn
that kind of coat, but that tailor man thought 'twas funny because he
never saw one made like it. And a lord takin' his lordship seriously
seems funny to us, but it doesn't seem so to him or to the tailor.
They've been brought up to it, same as you have to the coat.”
On one point she and I had agreed before coming to Mayberry, that was
that we must not expect calls from the neighbors or social intercourse
with the people of Mayberry.
“They don't know anything about us,” said I, “except that we are
Americans, and that may or may not be a recommendation, according to the
kind of Americans they have previously met. The Englishman, so all the
books tell us, is reserved and distant at first. He requires a long
acquaintance before admitting strangers to his home life and we shall
probably have no opportunity to make that acquaintance. If we were to
stay in Mayberry a year, and behaved ourselves, we might in time be
accepted as desirable, but not during the first summer. So if they leave
us to ourselves we must make the best of it.”
Hephzy agreed thoroughly. “You're right,” she said. “And, after all,
it's just what would happen anywhere. You remember when that Portygee
family came to Bayport and lived in the Solon Blodgett house. Nobody
would have anything to do with 'em for a long time because they were
foreigners, but they turned out to be real nice folks after all. We're
foreigners here and you can't blame the Mayberry people for not takin'
chances; it looks as if nobody in it ever had taken a chance, as if it
had been just the way it is since Noah came out of the Ark. I never felt
so new and shiny in my life as I do around this old rectory and this old
town.”
Which was all perfectly true and yet the fact remains that, “new and
shiny” as we were, the Mayberry people--those of our “class”--began to
call upon us almost immediately, to invite us to their homes, to show us
little kindnesses, and to be whole-souled and hospitable and friendly as
if we had known them and they us for years. It was one of the greatest
surprises, and remains one of the most pleasant recollections, of my
brief career as a resident in England, the kindly cordiality of these
neighbors in Mayberry.
The first caller was Dr. Bayliss, who occupied “Jasmine Gables,” the
pretty house next door. He dropped in one morning, introduced himself,
shook hands and chatted for an hour. That afternoon his wife called upon
Hephzy. The next day I played a round of golf upon the private course
on the Manor House grounds, the Burgleston Bogs grounds--with the doctor
and his son, young Herbert Bayliss, just through Cambridge and the
medical college at London. Young Bayliss was a pleasant, good-looking
young chap and I liked him as I did his father. He was at present
acting as his father's assistant in caring for the former's practice, a
practice which embraced three or four villages and a ten-mile stretch of
country.
Naturally I was interested in the Manor estate and its owner. The
grounds were beautiful, three square miles in extent and cared for, so
Bayliss, Senior, told me, by some hundred and fifty men, seventy of
whom were gardeners. Of the Manor House itself I caught a glimpse,
gray-turreted and huge, set at the end of lawns and flower beds, with
fountains playing and statues gleaming white amid the foliage. I asked
some questions concerning its owner. Yes, she was Lady Kent Carey and
she had a nephew named Heathcroft. So there was a chance, after all,
that I might again meet my ship acquaintance who abhorred “griddle
cakes.” I imagined he would be somewhat surprised at that meeting. It
was an odd coincidence.
As for the game of golf, my part of it, the least said the better.
Doctor Bayliss, who, it developed, was an enthusiast at the game, was
kind enough to tell me I had a “topping” drive. I thanked him, but there
was altogether too much “topping” connected with my play that forenoon
to make my thanks enthusiastic. I determined to practice assiduously
before attempting another match. Somehow I felt responsible for the
golfing honor of my country.
Other callers came to the rectory. The two curates, their names were
Judson and Worcester, visited us; young men, both of them, and good
fellows, Worcester particularly. Although they wore clerical garb
they were not in the least “preachy.” Hephzy, although she liked them,
expressed surprise.
“They didn't act a bit like ministers,” she said. “They didn't ask us
to come to meetin' nor hint at prayin' with the family or anything, yet
they looked for all the while like two Methodist parsons, young ones. A
curate is a kind of new-hatched rector, isn't he?”
“Not exactly,” I answered. “He is only partially hatched. But, whatever
you do, don't tell them they look like Methodists; they wouldn't
consider it a compliment.”
Hephzy was a Methodist herself and she resented the slur. “Well, I guess
a Methodist is as good as an Episcopalian,” she declared. “And they
don't ACT like Methodists. Why, one of 'em smoked a pipe. Just imagine
Mr. Partridge smokin' a pipe!”
Mr. Judson and I played eighteen holes of golf together. He played a
little worse than I did and I felt better. The honor of Bayport's golf
had been partially vindicated.
While all this was going on our patient remained, for the greater part
of the time, in her room. She was improving steadily. Doctor Bayliss,
whom I had asked to attend her, declared, as his London associates had
done, that all she needed was rest, quiet and the good air and food
which she was certain to get in Mayberry. He, too, like the physician at
Bancroft's, seemed impressed by her appearance and manner. And he also
asked similar embarrassing questions.
“Delightful young lady, Miss Morley,” he observed. “One of our English
girls, Knowles. She informs me that she IS English.”
“Partly English,” I could not help saying. “Her mother was an American.”
“Oh, indeed! You know she didn't tell me that, now did she.”
“Perhaps not.”
“No, by Jove, she didn't. But she has lived all her life in England?”
“Yes--in England and France.”
“Your niece, I think you said.”
I had said it, unfortunately, and it could not be unsaid now without
many explanations. So I nodded.
“She doesn't--er--behave like an American. She hasn't the American
manner, I mean to say. Now Miss Cahoon has--er--she has--”
“Miss Cahoon's manner is American. So is mine; we ARE Americans, you
see.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” hastily. “When are you and I to have the nine
holes you promised, Knowles?”
One fine afternoon the invalid came downstairs. The “between-maid” had
arranged chairs and the table on the lawn. We were to have tea there; we
had tea every day, of course--were getting quite accustomed to it.
Frances--I may as well begin calling her that--looked in better health
then than at any time since our meeting. She was becomingly, although
simply gowned, and there was a dash of color in her cheeks. Hephzibah
escorted her to the tea table. I rose to meet them.
“Frank--Frances, I mean--is goin' to join us to-day,” said Hephzy.
“She's beginnin' to look real well again, isn't she.”
I said she was. Frances nodded to me and took one of the chairs, the
most comfortable one. She appeared perfectly self-possessed, which I was
sure I did not. I was embarrassed, of course. Each time I met the
girl the impossible situation in which she had placed us became more
impossible, to my mind. And the question, “What on earth shall we do
with her?” more insistent.
Hephzy poured the tea. Frances, cup in hand, looked about her.
“This is rather a nice place, after all,” she observed, “isn't it.”
“It's a real lovely place,” declared Hephzy with enthusiasm.
The young lady cast another appraising glance at our surroundings.
“Yes,” she repeated, “it's a jolly old house and the grounds are not bad
at all.”
Her tone nettled me. Everything considered I thought she might have
shown a little more enthusiasm.
“I infer that you expected something much worse,” I observed.
“Oh, of course I didn't know what to expect. How should I? I had no hand
in selecting it, you know.”
“She's hardly seen it,” put in Hephzy. “She was too sick when she came
to notice much, I guess, and this is the first time she has been out
doors.”
“I am glad you approve,” I observed, drily.
My sarcasm was wasted. Miss Morley said again that she did approve, of
what she had seen, and added that we seemed to have chosen very well.
“I don't suppose,” said Hephzy, complacently, “that there are many much
prettier places in England than this one.”
“Oh, indeed there are. But all England is beautiful, of course.”
I thought of Mrs. Briggs' lodging-house, but I did not refer to it. Our
guest--or my “niece”--or our ward--it was hard to classify her--changed
the subject.
“Have you met any of the people about here?” she asked.
Hephzy burst into enthusiastic praise of the Baylisses and the curates
and the Coles.
“They're all just as nice as they can be,” she declared. “I never met
nicer folks, at home or anywhere.”
Frances nodded. “All English people are nice,” she said.
Again I thought of Mrs. Briggs and again I kept my thoughts to myself.
Hephzy went on rhapsodizing. I paid little attention until I heard her
speak my name.
“And Hosy thinks so, too. Don't you, Hosy?” she said.
I answered yes, on the chance. Frances regarded me oddly.
“I thought--I understood that your name was Kent, Mr. Knowles,” she
said.
“It is.”
“Then why does Miss Cahoon always--”
Hephzy interrupted. “Oh, I always call him Hosy,” she explained. “It's a
kind of pet name of mine. It's short for Hosea. His whole name is Hosea
Kent Knowles, but 'most everybody but me does call him Kent. I don't
think he likes Hosea very well.”
Our companion looked very much as if she did not wonder at my dislike.
Her eyes twinkled.
“Hosea,” she repeated. “That is an odd name. The original Hosea was a
prophet, wasn't he? Are you a prophet, Mr. Knowles?”
“Far from it,” I answered, with decision. If I had been a prophet I
should have been forewarned and, consequently, forearmed.
She smiled and against my will I was forced to admit that her smile was
attractive; she was prettier than ever when she smiled.
“I remember now,” she said; “all Americans have Scriptural names. I have
read about them in books.”
“Hosy writes books,” said Hephzy, proudly. “That's his profession; he's
an author.”
“Oh, really, is he! How interesting!”
“Yes, he is. He has written ever so many books; haven't you, Hosy.”
I didn't answer. My self and my “profession” were the last subjects I
cared to discuss. The young lady's smile broadened.
“And where do you write your books, Mr. Knowles?” she asked.
“In--er--Bayport?”
“Yes,” I answered, shortly. “Hephzy, Miss Morley will have another cup
of tea, I think.”
“Oh, no, thank you. But tell me about your books, Mr. Knowles. Are they
stories of Bayport?”
“No indeed!” Hephzy would do my talking for me, and I could not order
her to be quiet. “No indeed!” she declared. “He writes about lords and
ladies and counts and such. He hardly ever writes about everyday people
like the ones in Bayport. You would like his books, Frances. You would
enjoy readin' 'em, I know.”
“I am sure I should. They must be delightful. I do hope you brought some
with you, Mr. Knowles.”
“He didn't, but I did. I'll lend you some, Frances. I'll lend you 'The
Queen's Amulet.' That's a splendid story.”
“I am sure it must be. So you write about queens, too, Mr. Knowles. I
thought Americans scorned royalty. And what is his queen's name, Miss
Cahoon? Is it Scriptural?”
“Oh, no indeed! Besides, all Americans' names aren't out of the Bible,
any more than the names in England are. That man who wanted to let us
his house in Copperhead--no, Leatherhead--funny I should forget THAT
awful name--he was named Solomon--Solomon Cripps... Why, what is it?”
Miss Morley's smile and the mischievous twinkle had vanished. She looked
startled, and even frightened, it seemed to me.
“What is it, Frances?” repeated Hephzy, anxiously.
“Nothing--nothing. Solomon--what was it? Solomon Cripps. That is an odd
name. And you met this Mr.--er--Cripps?”
“Yes, we met him. He had a house he wanted to let us, and I guess we'd
have taken it, too, only you seemed to hate the name of Leatherhead so.
Don't you remember you did? I don't blame you. Of the things to call a
pretty town that's about the worst.”
“Yes, it is rather frightful. But this, Mr.--er--Cripps; was he as bad
as his name? Did you talk with him?”
“Only about the house. Hosy and I didn't like him well enough to
talk about anything else, except religion. He and his wife gave us
to understand they were awful pious. I'm afraid we wouldn't have been
churchy enough to suit them, anyway. Hosy, here, doesn't go to meetin'
as often as he ought to.”
“I am glad of it.” The young lady's tone was emphatic and she looked as
if she meant it. We were surprised.
“You're glad of it!” repeated Hephzy, in amazement. “Why?”
“Because I hate persons who go to church all the time and boast of it,
who do all sorts of mean things, but preach, preach, preach continually.
They are hypocritical and false and cruel. I HATE them.”
She looked now as she had in the room at Mrs. Briggs's when I had
questioned her concerning her father. I could not imagine the reason for
this sudden squall from a clear sky. Hephzy drew a long breath.
“Well,” she said, after a moment, “then Hosy and you ought to get along
first-rate together. He's down on hypocrites and make-believe piety
as bad as you are. The only time he and Mr. Partridge, our minister
in Bayport, ever quarreled--'twasn't a real quarrel, but more of a
disagreement--was over what sort of a place Heaven was. Mr. Partridge
was certain sure that nobody but church members would be there, and Hosy
said if some of the church members in Bayport were sure of a ticket, the
other place had strong recommendations. 'Twas an awful thing to say, and
I was almost as shocked as the minister was; that is I should have been
if I hadn't known he didn't mean it.”
Miss Morley regarded me with a new interest, or at least I thought she
did.
“Did you mean it?” she asked.
I smiled. “Yes,” I answered.
“Now, Hosy,” cried Hephzy. “What a way that is to talk! What do you know
about the hereafter?”
“Not much, but,” remembering the old story, “I know Bayport. Humph!
speaking of ministers, here is one now.”
Judson, the curate, was approaching across the lawn. Hephzy hastily
removed the lid of the teapot. “Yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief,
“there's enough tea left, though you mustn't have any more, Hosy. Mr.
Judson always takes three cups.”
Judson was introduced and, the “between-maid” having brought another
chair, he joined our party. He accepted the first of the three cups and
observed.
“I hope I haven't interrupted an important conversation. You appeared to
be talking very earnestly.”
I should have answered, but Hephzy's look of horrified expostulation
warned me to be silent. Frances, although she must have seen the look,
answered instead.
“We were discussing Heaven,” she said, calmly. “Mr. Knowles doesn't
approve of it.”
Hephzy bounced on her chair. “Why!” she cried; “why, what a--why, WHAT
will Mr. Judson think! Now, Frances, you know--”
“That was what you said, Mr. Knowles, wasn't it. You said if Paradise
was exclusively for church members you preferred--well, another
locality. That was what I understood you to say.”
Mr. Judson looked at me. He was a very good and very orthodox and a very
young man and his feelings showed in his face.
“I--I can scarcely think Mr. Knowles said that, Miss Morley,” he
protested. “You must have misunderstood him.”
“Oh, but I didn't misunderstand. That was what he said.”
Again Mr. Judson looked at me. It seemed time for me to say something.
“What I said, or meant to say, was that I doubted if the future life,
the--er--pleasant part of it, was confined exclusively to--er--professed
church members,” I explained.
The curate's ruffled feelings were evidently not soothed by this
explanation.
“But--but, Mr. Knowles,” he stammered, “really, I--I am at a loss to
understand your meaning. Surely you do not mean that--that--”
“Of course he didn't mean that,” put in Hephzy. “What he said was that
some of the ones who talk the loudest and oftenest in prayer-meetin' at
our Methodist church in Bayport weren't as good as they pretended to be.
And that's so, too.”
Mr. Judson seemed relieved. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Oh, yes, I quite
comprehend. Methodists--er--dissenters--that is quite different--quite.”
“Mr. Judson knows that no one except communicants in the Church of
England are certain of happiness,” observed Frances, very gravely.
Our caller turned his attention to her. He was not a joker, but I think
he was a trifle suspicious. The young lady met his gaze with one of
serene simplicity and, although he reddened, he returned to the charge.
“I should--I should scarcely go as far as that, Miss Morley,” he
said. “But I understand Mr. Knowles to refer to--er--church members;
and--er--dissenters--Methodists and others--are not--are not--”
“Well,” broke in Hephzibah, with decision, “I'm a Methodist, myself, and
_I_ don't expect to go to perdition.”
Judson's guns were spiked. He turned redder than ever and changed the
subject to the weather.
The remainder of the conversation was confined for the most part to
Frances and the curate. They discussed the village and the people in it
and the church and its activities. At length Judson mentioned golf.
“Mr. Knowles and I are to have another round shortly, I trust,” he said.
“You owe me a revenge, you know, Mr. Knowles.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the young lady, in apparent surprise, “does Mr. Knowles
play golf?”
“Not real golf,” I observed.
“Oh, but he does,” protested Mr. Judson, “he does. Rather! He plays a
very good game indeed. He beat me quite badly the other day.”
Which, according to my reckoning, was by no means a proof of
extraordinary ability. Frances seemed amused, for some unexplained
reason.
“I should never have thought it,” she observed.
“Why not?” asked Judson.
“Oh, I don't know. Golf is a game, and Mr. Knowles doesn't look as if he
played games. I should have expected nothing so frivolous from him.”
“My golf is anything but frivolous,” I said. “It's too seriously bad.”
“Do you golf, Miss Morley, may I ask?” inquired the curate.
“I have occasionally, after a fashion. I am sure I should like to
learn.”
“I shall be delighted to teach you. It would be a great pleasure,
really.”
He looked as if it would be a pleasure. Frances smiled.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “You and I and Mr. Knowles will have a
threesome.”
Judson's joy at her acceptance was tempered, it seemed to me.
“Oh, of course,” he said. “It will be a great pleasure to have your
uncle with us. A great pleasure, of course.”
“My--uncle?”
“Why, yes--Mr. Knowles, you know. By the way, Miss Morley--excuse
my mentioning it, but I notice you always address your uncle as Mr.
Knowles. That seems a bit curious, if you'll pardon my saying so. A bit
distant and--er--formal to our English habit. Do all nieces and nephews
in your country do that? Is it an American custom?”
Hephzy and I looked at each other and my “niece” looked at both of us. I
could feel the blood tingling in my cheeks and forehead.
“Is it an American custom?” repeated Mr. Judson.
“I don't know,” with chilling deliberation. “I am NOT an American.”
The curate said “Indeed!” and had the astonishing good sense not to say
any more. Shortly afterward he said good-by.
“But I shall look forward to our threesome, Miss Morley,” he declared.
“I shall count upon it in the near future.”
After his departure there was a most embarrassing interval of silence.
Hephzy spoke first.
“Don't you think you had better go in now, Frances,” she said. “Seems to
me you had. It's the first time you've been out at all, you know.”
The young lady rose. “I am going,” she said. “I am going, if you and--my
uncle--will excuse me.”
That evening, after dinner, Hephzy joined me in the drawing-room. It was
a beautiful summer evening, but every shade was drawn and every shutter
tightly closed. We had, on our second evening in the rectory, suggested
leaving them open, but the housemaid had shown such shocked surprise
and disapproval that we had not pressed the point. By this time we had
learned that “privacy” was another sacred and inviolable English custom.
The rectory sat in its own ground, surrounded by high hedges; no
one, without extraordinary pains, could spy upon its inmates, but,
nevertheless, the privacy of those inmates must be guaranteed. So the
shutters were closed and the shades drawn.
“Well?” said I to Hephzy.
“Well,” said Hephzy, “it's better than I was afraid it was goin' to be.
I explained that you told the folks at Bancroft's she was your niece
because 'twas the handiest thing to tell 'em, and you HAD to tell 'em
somethin'. And down here in Mayberry the same way. She understood, I
guess; at any rate she didn't make any great objection. I thought at the
last that she was laughin', but I guess she wasn't. Only what she said
sounded funny.”
“What did she say?”
“Why, she wanted to know if she should call you 'Uncle Hosea.' She
supposed it should be that--'Uncle Hosy' sounded a little irreverent.”
I did not answer. “Uncle Hosea!” a beautiful title, truly.
“She acted so different to-day, didn't she,” observed Hephzy. “It's
because she's gettin' well, I suppose. She was real full of fun, wasn't
she.”
“Confound her--yes,” I snarled. “All the fun is on her side. Well, she
should make the best of it while it lasts. When she learns the truth she
may not find it so amusing.”
Hephzy sighed. “Yes,” she said, slowly, “I'm afraid that's so, poor
thing. When--when are you goin' to tell her?”
“I don't know,” I answered. “But pretty soon, that's certain.”