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 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 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 fact that he was the center of interest to the
crowd assembled in the room. Finally, when he gained access to the
delivery window, he was greeted by a smile from the postmistress, a
woman of uncertain age, who remarked as she handed him his letters:
"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 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."
"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 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 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 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."
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.
"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."
"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 while she was tryin' to convince
him that the bath-tub wasn't really a coal bin, and that his mental
attitude was hindside before.
"Then she got to be a Theosophist, and used to sit in her room
upstairs projecting her astral body out of the window into the back
yard, and pulling it in again like a ball on a rubber string--just for
practice, you know. But that attack didn't last long."
"She seems to be a very versatile young woman; but she doesn't stick
to one thing very long."
"A rolling stone gathers no moss, you know," Mrs. Burke replied.
"That's one of the advantages of bein' a rolling stone. It must be
awful to get mossy; and there isn't any moss on Virginia Bascom,
whatever faults she may have--not a moss."
For a moment Mrs. Burke was silent, and then she began:
"Once Virginia got to climbin' her family tree, to find out where her
ancestors came from. She thought that possibly they might be noblemen.
But I guess there wasn't very much doin' up the tree until she got
down to New York, and paid a man to tell her. She brought back an
illuminated coat of arms with a lion rampantin' on top; but she was
the same old Virginia still. What do I care about my ancestors! It
doesn't make no difference to me. I'm just myself anyway, no matter
how you figure; and I'm a lot more worried about where I'm goin' to,
than where I came from. Virginia's got a book called 'Who's Who,' that
she's always studying. But the only thing that matters, it seems to
me, is Who's What."
"I wonder she hasn't married," remarked Donald, innocently.
"Ah, that's the trouble. She's like a thousand others without no
special occupation in life. She's wastin' a lot of bottled up interest
and sympathy on foolish things. If she'd married and had seven babies,
they would have seen to it that she didn't make a fool of herself.
However, it isn't her fault. She's volunteered to act as Deaconess to
every unmarried parson we've had; and it's a miracle of wonders one of
'em didn't succumb; parsons are such--oh, do excuse me! I mean so
injudicious on the subject of matrimony."
"But, Mrs. Burke, don't you think a clergyman ought to be a married
man?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, t'aint me that's been doin' the thinkin'
along those lines, for most of the parsons we've had. I've been more
of a first aid to the injured, in the matrimonial troubles of our
parish, and the Lord only knows when love-making has got as far as
actual injury to the parties engaged,--well thinkin' 'aint much use.
But there's Ginty for example. She's been worryin' herself thin for
the last five years, doin' matrimonial equations for the clergy. She's
a firm believer in the virtue of patience, and if the Lord only keeps
on sendin' us unmarried rectors, Ginty is goin' to have her day. It's
just naturally bound to come. I 'aint sure whether she's got a right
to be still runnin' with the lambs or not, but that don't matter
much,--old maids will rush in where angels fear to tread."
Maxwell smiled. "Old maids, and old bachelors, are pretty much alike.
I know a few of the latter, that no woman on earth could make into
regular human beings."
"Oh, yes; old bachelors aren't the nicest thing the Lord ever made.
Most of 'em are mighty selfish critters, take 'em as they run; and a
man that's never had a real great love in his life doesn't know what
life is."
"That's quite true," Donald responded, with such warmth that Mrs.
Burke glanced at him suspiciously, and changed her tune, as she
continued:
"Seems to me a parson, or any other man, is very foolish to marry
before he can support a wife comfortably, and lay by somethin' for a
rainy day, though. The last rector had five babies and seventeen cents
to feed 'em with. Yes, there were little olive branches on all four
sides of the table, and under the table too. The Whittimores seemed to
have their quiver full of 'em, as the psalmist says. Mrs. Whittimore
used to say to me, 'The Lord will provide,'--just to keep her courage
up, poor thing! Well, I suppose the Lord did provide; but I had to do
a lot of hustlin', just the same. No sir, if a parson marries, he
better find a woman who has outgrown her short skirts. Young things
dyin' to be martyrs with a good lookin' young parson, are a drug in
the market. Better go slow." And Hepsey looked up at him
significantly.
"Then you think it would be inadvisable to propose to Miss Virginia
immediately, do you?" Donald asked, as if humbly seeking guidance.
"Well, there doesn't seem to be any immediate hurry about it. Now if
you'll open the gate to Thunder Cliff, I'll be much obliged to you. If
I don't get my mind on something less romantic than Virginia, we shall
have to dine off airy fancies--and that won't suit Nickey, for one."
[Illustration]