Hepsey Burke. Frank Nash Westcott
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
Miss Bascom raised her lorgnette in pained surprise and gazed at Donald curiously; then she sighed and tapping her fingers with her glasses replied:
“But one has to consider the social responsibilities of one’s position, you know. Many of the village people are well enough in their way, really quite amusing as individuals; but one cannot alter social distinctions.”
“I see,” replied Donald, non-committally.
Virginia was beginning to think that the new rector was rather dull in his perceptions, rather gauche, but, deciding to take a charitable view, she held out her hand with a beaming smile as she said:
“Remember, you are to make Willow Bluff one of your homes. We shall always be charmed to see you.”
When, after their respective shoppings were completed, Maxwell rejoined Mrs. Burke, and they had started on a brisk trot towards home, she remarked:
“So you have had a visit with the Senior Warden.”
“Yes, and with Miss Bascom. She came into the office while I was there.”
“Hm! Well! She’s one of your flock!”
“Would you call Miss Bascom one of my lambs?” asked Donald mischievously. 46
“Oh, that depends on where you draw the line. Don’t you think she’s handsome?”
“I can hardly say. What do you think about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When she’s well dressed she has a sort of style about her; but isn’t it merciful that we none of us know how we really do look? If we did, we wouldn’t risk bein’ alone with ourselves five minutes without a gun.”
“Is that one for Miss Bascom?”
“No, I ought not to say a word against Virginia Bascom. She’s a good sort accordin’ to her lights; and then too, she is a disconnection of mine by marriage—once removed.”
“How do you calculate that relationship?”
“Oh, her mother’s brother married my sister. She suspected that he was guilty of incompatibility—and she proved it, and got a divorce. If that don’t make a disconnection of Ginty Bascom, then I don’t know what does. Virginia was born in Boston, though she was brought up here. It must be terrible to be born in Boston, and have to live up to it, when you spend your whole life in a place like Durford. But Ginty does her very best, though occasionally she forgets.”
“You can hardly blame her for that. Memory is tricky, and Boston and Durford are about as unlike as two places well could be.” 47
“Oh, no; I don’t blame her. Once she formed a club for woman’s suffrage. She set out to ‘form my mind’—as if my mind wasn’t pretty thoroughly formed at this time of day—and get me to protest against the tyranny of the male sex. I didn’t see that the male sex was troublin’ her much; but I signed a petition she got up to send to the Governor or somebody, asking for the right to vote. There was an opposition society that didn’t want the ballot, and they got up another petition.”
“And you signed that too, I expect,” laughed Donald.
“Sure thing, I did. I’m not narrow-minded, and I like to be obliging. Then she tried what she called slummin’, which, as near as I can see, means walkin’ in where you ’aint wanted, because people are poorer than you are, and leavin’ little tracts that nobody reads, and currant jelly that nobody eats, and clothes that nobody can wear. But an Irishman shied a cabbage at her head