THE MINIATURE
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.
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 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 "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."
[Illustration: "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 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 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, 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, _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 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----"
"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:
"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.
[Illustration]