Hepsey Burke

“Oh, we won’t use such strong language as that. I came here merely to tell you that the house must be vacated soon as possible. Mr. Bascom has gone to New York on business and will not be back for two weeks. Meantime he wishes the house vacated, so that he can rent it to other parties.”

“When does the Senior Warden propose to eject his rector, if I may be allowed to ask?”

“Oh, there is no immediate hurry. Any time this week will do.”

“What does he want for this place?”

“I believe he expects fifteen dollars a month.”

“Well, of course that is prohibitive. Tell Mr. Bascom that we will surrender the house on Wednesday, and that we are greatly indebted to him for allowing us to occupy it rent-free for so long a time.”

As Donald showed the objectionable visitor out of the house, he caught sight of Hepsey Burke walking towards it. He half hoped she would pass by, but with a glance of suspicion and barely civil greeting 207 to Nelson as he walked away, she came on, and with a friendly nod to Maxwell entered the rectory.

“I’ve just been talkin’ to Mrs. Betty for her good,” she remarked. “I met her in town, lookin’ as peaked as if she’d been fastin’ double shifts, and I had a notion to come in and complete the good work on yourself.”

Maxwell’s worried face told its own story. He was so nonplused by the bolt just dropped from the blue that he could find no words of responsive raillery wherewith to change the subject.

Hepsey led the way to the parlor and seated herself, facing him judicially. In her quick mind the new evidence soon crystallized into proof of her already half-formed suspicions. She came straight to the point.

“Is Bascom making you any trouble? If he is, say so, ’cause I happen to have the whip-hand so far as he’s concerned. That Nelson’s nothin’ but a tool of his, and a dull tool at that.”

“He’s an objectionable person, I must say,” remarked Maxwell, and hesitated to trust himself further.

Mrs. Burke gazed at Maxwell for some time in silence and then began:

“You look about done up—I don’t want to be pryin’, 208 but I guess you’d better own up. Something’s the matter.”

“I am just worried and anxious, and I suppose I can’t help showing it,” he replied wearily.

“So you’re worried, are you. Now don’t you get the worried habit; if it makes a start it will grow on you till you find yourself worryin’ for fear the moon won’t rise. Worryin’s like usin’ rusty scissors: it sets your mouth awry. You just take things as they come, and when it seems as if everything was goin’ to smash and you couldn’t help it, put on your overalls and paint a fence, or hammer tacks, or any old thing that comes handy. What has that rascal Bascom been doin’? Excuse me—my diplomacy’s of the hammer-and-tongs order; you’re not gettin’ your salary paid?”

For some time Maxwell hesitated and then answered:

“Well, I guess I might as well tell you, because you will know all about it anyway in a day or two, and you might as well get a correct version of the affair from me, though I hate awfully to trouble you. The parish owes me two hundred and fifty dollars. I spoke to Reynolds about it several times, but he says that Bascom and several of his intimate friends won’t pay their subscriptions promptly, and so he can’t pay me. But the shortage in my salary is not the worst of it. 209 Did you know that the rectory was heavily mortgaged, and that Bascom holds the mortgage?”

“Yes, I knew it; but we paid something down’, and the interest’s been kept up, and we hoped that if we did that Bascom would be satisfied.”

“It seems that the interest has not been paid in some time, and the real reason why Nelson called just now was to inform me that as Bascom was about to foreclose we must get out as soon as we could. I told him that we would leave on Wednesday next.”

For a moment there was a look on Mrs. Burke’s face which Maxwell never had seen before, and which boded ill for Bascom: but she made no immediate reply.

“To tell you the truth,” she said finally, “I have been afraid of this. That was the only thing that worried me about your gettin’ married. But I felt that no good would come from worryin’, and that if Bascom was goin’ to play you some dirty trick, he’d do it; and now he’s done it. What’s got into the man, all of a sudden? He’s a skinflint—always closer than hair to a dog’s back; but I don’t believe I’ve ever known him do somethin’ downright ugly, like this.”

“Oh, I know well enough,” remarked Donald. “If I had been aware of how matters stood about the rectory, I should have acted differently. I wrote him a 210 pretty stiff letter a day or two ago, calling upon him, as Senior Warden, to use his influence to fulfill the contract with me, and get the arrears of my salary paid up. I suppose he had thought I would just get out of the place if my salary was held back—and he’s wanted to get rid of me for some time. Now, he’s taken this other means of ejecting me not only from his house but from the town itself. He knows I can’t afford to pay the rent out of my salary—let alone out of half of it!” He laughed rather bitterly.

“He’ll be singing a different tune, before I’ve done with him,” said Hepsey. “Now you leave this to me—I’ll have a twitch on old Bascom’s nose that’ll make him think of something else than ejecting his rector. I’ll go and visit with him a little this afternoon.”

“But Nelson said that he was in New York.”

“I know better than that,” snorted Hepsey. “But I guess he’ll want to go there, and stay the winter there too, maybe, when I’ve had my say. No sir—I’m goin’ to take my knittin’ up to his office, and sit awhile; and if he doesn’t have the time of his life it won’t be my fault.”

She turned to leave the room, with a belligerent swing of her shoulders.

“Mrs. Burke,” said Maxwell gently, “you are kindness itself; but I don’t want you to do this—at least 211 not yet. I want to fight this thing through myself, and rather to shame Bascom into doing the right thing than force him to do it—even if the latter were possible. I must think things out a bit. I shall want your help—we always do, Betty and I.”

“I don’t know but you’re right; but if your plan don’t work, remember mine will. Well, Mrs. Betty’ll be coming in soon, and I’ll leave you. Meantime I shall just go home and load my guns: I’m out for Bascom’s hide, sooner or later.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE NEW RECTORY

When Betty returned, and Donald told her the happenings of the morning, the clouds dispersed somewhat, and before long the dictum that “there is humor in all things”—even in ejection from house and home—seemed proven true. After lunch they sat in Donald’s den, and were laughingly suggesting every kind of habitat, possible and impossible, from purchasing and fitting up the iceman’s covered wagon and perambulating round the town, to taking a store and increasing their income 213 by purveying Betty’s tempting preserves and confections.

Their consultation was interrupted by the arrival of Nickey, armed with a Boy Scouts’ “Manual.”

“Gee! Mr. Maxwell: Uncle Jonathan Jackson’s all right; I’ll never do another thing to guy him. He’s loaned us his tent for our Boy Scouts’ corpse, and I’ve been studyin’ out how to pitch it proper, so I can show the kids the ropes; but–”

“Donald!” cried Betty. “The very thing—let’s camp out on the church lot.”

“By Jinks!” exclaimed Maxwell, unclerically. “We’ll have that tent up this very afternoon—if Nickey will lend it to us, second hand, and get his men together.”

Nickey flushed with delight. “You betcher life I will,” he shouted excitedly. “Is it for a revival stunt? You ’aint goin’ to live there, are you?”

“That’s just what we are going to do, if Jonathan and you’ll lend us the tent for a few months. Mr. Bascom wants to let the rectory to some other tenants, and we’ve got to find somewhere else to lay our heads. Why, it’s the very way! There’s not a thing against it, that I can see. Let’s go and see the tent, and consult Mrs. Burke. Come along, both of you.”

And off they hurried, like three children bent on a 214 new game. It was soon arranged, and Hepsey rose to the occasion with her usual vim. To her and Nickey the transportation of the tent was consigned, while Maxwell went off to purchase the necessary boarding for a floor, and Mrs. Betty returned to the rectory to pack up their belongings.

“We’ll have to occupy our new quarters to-night,” said Maxwell, “or our friend the enemy may raid the church lot in the night, and vanish with tent and all.”

An hour or so later, when Maxwell arrived at the church, clad in overalls and riding on a wagon of planks, he found Mrs. Burke and Nickey with a contingent of stalwarts awaiting him. There was a heap of canvas and some coils of rope lying on the ground near by. Hepsey greeted him with a smile from under the shade of her sun-bonnet.

“You seem ready for business, even if you don’t look a little bit like the Archbishop of Canterbury in that rig,” she remarked. “I’m afraid there’ll be an awful scandal in the parish if you go wanderin’ around dressed like a carpenter; but it can’t be helped; and if the Bishop excommunicates you, I’ll give you a job on the farm.”

“I don’t mind about the looks of it; but I suppose the vestry will have something to say about our camping on church property.” 215

“That needn’t worry you. Maybe it’ll bring ’em to their senses, and maybe, they’ll be ashamed when they see their parson driven out of his house and havin’ to live in a tent,—though I ’aint holdin’ out much hope of that, to you. Folks that are the most religious are usually the hardest to shame. I always said, financially speakin’, that preachin’ wasn’t a sound business. It’s all give and no get; but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of a parish wanting a parson to preach without eating and to sleep without a roof over his head. Most of us seem to forget that rectors are human being like the rest of us. If religion is worth havin’, it’s worth payin’ for.”

The planking was soon laid, and the erection of the tent was left to Nickey’s captaining—all hands assisting. With his manual in one hand he laid it out, rope by rope, poles in position, and each helper at his place. Then at a word, up it soared, with a “bravo” from the puzzled onlookers.

“We want a poet here,” laughed Maxwell. “Longfellow’s ‘Building of the Ship,’ or Ralph Connor’s ‘Building the Barn’ aren’t a circumstance to Nickey’s ‘Pitching the Parson’s Tent.’”

It was next divided off into three convenient rooms, for sleeping, eating and cooking—and Hepsey, with three scouts, having driven across to the old rectory 216 while the finishing touches were being put to the new, she and her military escort soon returned with Mrs. Betty, and a load of furniture and other belongings.

“Why, this is perfect!” cried Betty. “The only thing lacking to complete the illusion is a trout brook in the front yard, and the smell of pines and the damp mossy earth of the forests. We’ll wear our old clothes, and have a bonfire at night, and roast potatoes and corn in the hot coals, and have the most beautiful time imaginable.”

The town visitors who still lingered on the scene were received cordially by Maxwell and Mrs. Betty, who seemed to be in rather high spirits; but when the visitors made any inquiries concerning structural matters they were politely referred to Nickey Burke for any information they desired, as he had assumed official management of the work.

Just before the various helpers left at six o’clock, smoke began to issue from the little stove-pipe sticking out through the canvas of the rear of the tent, and Mrs. Betty, with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her cooking apron on, came out to watch it with all the pride of a good housekeeper.