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 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 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. 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."
"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."
"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, 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 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 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 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 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."
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