Hepsey Burke. Frank Nash Westcott
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 65 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, 66 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, 67 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 68 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–” 69
“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: 70
“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