Hepsey Burke. Frank Nash Westcott

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      “Good morning, Mr. Maxwell. Glad to meet you. I’m a Presbyterian myself; but I have always made it a point to be nice to everybody. You seem to have quite a good many correspondents, and I presume you’ll be wantin’ a lock box. It’s so convenient. You must feel lonesome in a strange place. Drop in and see mother some day. She’s got curvature of the spine, but no religious prejudices. She’ll be right glad to see you, I’m sure, even though she’s not ’Piscopal.”

      Maxwell thanked her, and inquired the way to the Senior Warden’s office, to which she directed him.

      Three doors below the post office was a hallway and a flight of stairs leading up to Mr. Bascom’s sanctum. As he ascended, Maxwell bethought him of the Bishop’s hint that this was the main stronghold for the exercise of his strategy. The Senior Warden, for some reason or other, had persistently quarreled with the clergy, or crossed them. What was the secret of his antagonism? Would he be predisposed in Maxwell’s favor, or prejudiced against him? He would soon discover—and he decided to let Bascom do most of the talking. Reaching the first landing, Donald knocked on a door the upper panel of which was filled with glass, painted white. On 40 the glass in large black letters was the name: “Sylvester Bascom.”

      The Senior Warden sat behind a table, covered with musty books and a litter of letters and papers. In his prime he had been a small man; and now, well past middle age, he looked as if he had shrunk until he was at least five sizes too small for his skin, which was sallow and loose. There was a suspicious look in his deep-set eyes, which made his hooked nose all the more aggressive. He was bald, except for a few stray locks of gray hair which were brushed up from his ears over the top of his head, and evidently fastened down by some gluey cosmetic. He frowned severely as Maxwell entered, but extended a shriveled, bony hand, and pointed to a chair. Then placing the tips of his fingers together in front of his chest, he gazed at Donald as if he were the prisoner at the bar, and began without any preliminary welcome:

      “So you are the young man who is to take charge of the church. It is always difficult for a city-bred man to adjust himself to the needs and manners of a country parish. Very difficult, Mr. Maxwell—very difficult.”

      Maxwell smiled as he replied:

      “Yes, but that is a fault which time will remedy.” 41

      “Doubtless. Time has a way of remedying most things. But in the meantime—in the meantime, lack of tact, self-assertiveness, indiscretion, on the part of a clergyman may do much harm—much harm!”

      Mr. Maxwell colored slightly as he laughed and replied:

      “I should imagine that you have had rather a ‘mean time,’ from the way you speak. Your impressions of the clergy seem to be painful.”

      “Well,” the lawyer continued sententiously, “we have had all sorts and conditions of men, as the Prayer Book says; and the result has not always been satisfactory—not always satisfactory. But I was not consulted.”

      To this, Maxwell, who was somewhat nettled, replied:

      “I suppose that in any case the responsibility for the success of a parish must be somewhat divided between the parson and the people. I am sure I may count on your assistance.”

      “Oh yes; oh yes; of course. I shall be very glad to advise you in any way I can. Prevention is better than cure: don’t hesitate to come to me for suggestions. You will doubtless be anxious to follow in the good old ways, and avoid extremes. I am a firm believer in expediency. Though I was not consulted in 42 the present appointment, I may say that what we need is a man of moderate views who can adjust himself to circumstances. Tact, that is the great thing in life. I am a firm believer in tact. Our resources are limited; and a clergyman should be a self-denying man of God, contented with plain living and high thinking. No man can succeed in a country parish who seeks the loaves and fishes of the worldling. Durford is not a metropolis; we do not emulate city ways.”

      “No, I should imagine not,” Maxwell answered.

      The parson gathered that the Senior Warden felt slighted that he had not been asked by the Bishop to name his appointee; and that if he had bethought himself to sprinkle a little hay-seed on his clothing, his reception might have been more cordial.

      At this point the door opened and a woman, hovering somewhere between twenty-five and forty, dressed in rather youthful and pronounced attire, entered, and seeing Donald exclaimed:

      “Oh, papa, I did not know that you were busy with a client. Do excuse me.”

      Then, observing the clerical attire of the “client,” she came forward, and extending her hand to Donald, exclaimed with a coy, insinuating smile:

      “I am sure that you must be Mr. Maxwell. I am 43 so glad to see you. I hope I am not interrupting professional confidences.”

      “Not in the least,” Donald replied, as he placed a chair for her. “I am very glad to have the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Bascom.”

      “I heard last night that you had arrived, Mr. Maxwell; and I am sure that it is very good of you to come and see papa so soon. I hope to see you at our house before long. You know that we are in the habit of seeing a good deal of the rector, because—you will excuse my frankness—because there are so few people of culture and refinement in this town to make it pleasant for him.”

      “I am sure that you are very kind,” Donald replied. Miss Bascom had adjusted her tortoise-shell lorgnette, and was surveying Donald from head to foot.

      “Is your wife with you?” she inquired, as one who would say: “Tell me no lies!”

      “No, I am not married.”

      At once she was one radiant smile of welcome:

      “Papa, we must do all we can to make Mr. Maxwell feel at home at Willow Bluff—so that he will not get lonesome and desert us,” she added genially.

      “You’re very kind.”

      “You must come and dine with us very soon and 44 see our place for yourself. You are staying with Mrs. Burke, I understand.”

      “Yes.”

      “How does she impress you?”

      “I hardly know her well enough to form any definite opinion of her, though she has been kindness itself to me.”

      “Yes, she has a sharp tongue, but a kind heart; and she does a great deal of good in the village; but, poor soul! she has no sense of humor—none whatever. Then of course she is not in society, you know. You will find, Mr. Maxwell, that social lines are very carefully drawn in this town; there are so many grades, and one has to be careful, you know.”

      “Is it so! How many people are there in the town?”

      “Possibly eight or nine hundred.”

      “And how many of them are ‘in society’?”

      “Oh, I should imagine not more than twenty or thirty.”

      “They must be very select.”

      “Oh, we are; quite so.”

      “Don’t you ever get tired of seeing the same twenty or thirty all the time? I’m afraid I am sufficiently vulgar to like a change, once in a while—somebody real common, you know.” 45

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