Hepsey Burke. Frank Nash Westcott

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “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.”

      CHAPTER III

      THE SENIOR WARDEN

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ