“I don’t rightly know what’s got into Virginia Bascom,” remarked Jonathan, as he sat on Hepsey’s side porch one evening, making polite conversation as his new habit was. “She’s buzzin’ round Mrs. Betty like a bee round a flower—thicker’n thieves they be, by gum.”

“Yes,” cogitated Hepsey, half to herself, and half in response, “the lamb’s lyin’ down all right, and it’s about time we’d got the lion curled up by her and purrin’ like a cat. But I don’t see the signs of it, and 272 I’ll have to take my knittin’ to-morrow and sit right down in his den and visit with him a little. If he won’t purr, I’ve got what’ll make him roar, good and proper, or I’ve missed my guess.”

“Now Hepsey, you go easy with my church-partner, the Senior Warden. When his wife lived, he was a decent sort of a feller, was Sylvester Bascom; and I reckon she got him comin’ her way more with molasses than with vinegar.”

And though Hepsey snorted contempt for the advice of a mere male, she found the thought top-side of her mind as she started out next morning to pay Bascom a momentous call. After all, Jonathan had but echoed her own consistent philosophy of life. But with her usual shrewdness she decided to go armed with both kinds of ammunition.

Mrs. Burke puffed somewhat loudly as she paused on the landing which led to the door of Bascom’s office. After wiping her forehead with her handkerchief she gave three loud knocks on the painted glass of the door, which shook some of the loose putty onto the floor. After knocking the third time some one called out “Come in,” and she opened the door, entered, and gazed calmly across the room. Bascom was seated at his desk talking to a farmer, and when he turned around and discovered 273 who his visitor was, he ejaculated irreverently:

“Good Lord deliver us!”

“Oh, do excuse me!” Mrs. Burke replied. “I didn’t know that you were sayin’ the Litany. I’ll just slip into the next room and wait till you get through.”

Whereupon she stepped into the next room, closed the door, and made herself comfortable in a large arm-chair. There was a long table in the middle of the room, and the walls were covered with shelves and yellow books of a most monotonous binding. The air was musty and close. She quietly opened one of the windows, and having resumed her seat, she pulled a wash-rag from her leather bag and began knitting calmly.

She waited for some time, occasionally glancing at the long table, which was covered with what appeared to be a hopeless confusion of letters, legal documents, and books opened and turned face downward. Occasionally she sniffed in disgust at the general untidiness of the place. Evidently the appearance of the table in front of her was getting on her nerves; and so she put her knitting away as she muttered to herself:

“I wonder Virginia don’t come up here once in a while and put things to rights. It’s simply awful!” Then she began sorting the papers and gathering 274 them into little uniform piles by themselves. She seemed to have no notion whatever of their possible relation to each other, but arranged them according to their size and color in nice little separate piles. When there was nothing else left for her to do she resumed her knitting and waited patiently for the departure of the farmer. The two men seemed to be having a rather warm dispute over the interpretation of some legal contract; and if Bascom was hot-tempered and emphatic in his language, bordering on the profane, the client was stubborn and dull-witted and hard to convince. Occasionally she overheard bits of the controversy which were not intended for her ears. Bascom insisted:

“But you’re not such a dum fool as to think that a contract legally made between two parties is not binding, are you? You admit that I have fulfilled my part, and now you must pay for the services rendered or else I shall bring suit against you.”

The reply to this was not audible, but the farmer did not seem to be quite convinced.

After what seemed to her an interminable interval the door banged, and she knew that Bascom was alone. She did not wait for any invitation, but rising quietly she went into the inner office and took the chair vacated by the farmer. Bascom made a pretense 275 of writing, in silence, with his back towards her, during which interval Hepsey waited patiently. Then, looking up with the expression of a deaf-mute, he asked colorlessly:

“Well, Mrs. Burke, what may I do for you?”

“You can do nothing for me—but you can and must do something for the Maxwells,” she replied firmly but quietly.

“Don’t you think it would be better to let Maxwell take care of his own affairs?”

“Yes, most certainly, if he were in a position to do so. But you know that the clergy are a long-sufferin’ lot, more’s the pity; they’ll endure almost anythin’ rather than complain. That’s why you and others take advantage of them.”

“Ah, but an earnest minister of the Gospel does not look for the loaves and fishes of his calling.”

“I shouldn’t think he would. I hate fish, myself; but Maxwell has a perfect right to look for the honest fulfillment of a contract made between you and him. Didn’t I hear you tell that farmer that he was a dum fool if he thought that a contract made between two parties is not legally binding, and that if you fulfilled your part he must pay for your services or you would sue him? Do you suppose that a contract with a carpenter or a plumber or a mason is 276 binding, while a contract with a clergyman is not? What is the matter with you, anyway?”

Bascom made no reply, but turned his back towards Hepsey and started to write. She resumed:

“Donald Maxwell’s salary is goin’ to be paid him in full within the next two weeks or––”

Mrs. Burke came to a sudden silence, and after a moment or two Bascom turned around and inquired sarcastically:

“Or what?”

Hepsey continued to knit in silence for a while, her face working in her effort to gain control of herself and speak calmly.

“Now see here, Sylvester Bascom: I didn’t come here to have a scene with you, and if I knit like I was fussed, you must excuse me.”

Her needles had been flashing lightning, and truth to tell, Bascom, for all he dreaded Hepsey’s sharp tongue as nothing else in Durford, had been unable to keep his eyes off those angry bits of sparkling steel. Suddenly they stopped—dead. The knitting fell into Hepsey’s lap, and she sat forward—a pair of kindly, moist eyes searching the depths of Bascom’s, as he looked up at her. Her voice dropped to a lower tone as she continued:

“There’s been just one person, and one person only, 277 that’s ever been able to keep the best of you on top—and she was my best friend, your wife. She kept you human, and turned even the worst side of you to some account. If you did scrape and grub, ’most night and day, to make your pile, and was hard on those that crossed your path while doin’ of it, it was she that showed you there was pleasure in usin’ it for others as well as for yourself, and while she lived you did it. But since she’s been gone,”—the old man tried to keep his face firm and his glance steady, but in vain—he winced,—“since she’s been gone, the human in you’s dried up like a sun-baked apple. And it’s you, Sylvester Bascom, that’s been made the most miserable, ’spite of all the little carks you’ve put on many another.”

His face hardened again, and Hepsey paused.

“What has all this to do with Mr. Maxwell, may I ask?”

“I’m comin’ to that,” continued Hepsey, patiently. “If Mary Bascom were alive to-day, would the rector of Durford be livin’ in a tent instead of in the rectory—the house she thought she had given over, without mortgage or anything else, to the church? And would you be holdin’ back your subscription to the church, and seein’ that others held back too? I never thought you’d have done, when she was dead, what’d 278 have broken her heart if she’d been livin’. The church was her one great interest in life, after her husband and her daughter; and it was her good work that brought the parish to make you Senior Warden. After you’d made money and moved to your new house, just before she died, she gave the old house, that was hers from her father, to the church, and you were to make the legal transfer of it. Then she died suddenly, and you delayed and delayed—claiming the house as yours, and at last sold it to us subject to the mortgage.”

The old man stirred uneasily in his chair.

“This is all quite beside the mark. What might have been proper to do in my wife’s life-time became a different matter altogether after her death. I had my daughter’s welfare to think of; besides––”

“I’m not talkin’ about your legal right. But you know that if you’d wanted to have it, you could have got your interest on the mortgage quick enough. If you hadn’t held back on his salary, others wouldn’t have; or if they had, you could have got after ’em. What’s the use of tryin’ to mix each other up? You couldn’t keep Maxwell in your pocket, and because he didn’t come to you every day for orders you reckoned to turn him out of the parish. You’ve not one thing against him, and you know it, Sylvester Bascom. 279 He’s shown you every kind of respect as his Senior Warden, and more patience than you deserved. He let himself be—no, had himself—bled, to save your life. But instead of making him the best young friend you could have had, and makin’ yourself of real use to your town and your neighbors through him and his work, you’ve let the devil get into you; and when your accident come, you’d got to where you were runnin’ that fast down a steep place into the sea that I could ’most hear the splash.”

She cocked her head on one side, and smiled at him whimsically, hoping for some response to her humorous picture. A faint ghost of a smile—was it, or was it not?—flickered on the old man’s lips; but he gave no sign of grace.

Hepsey sighed, and paused for an instant. “Well—we can’t sit here talkin’ till midnight, or I shall be compromisin’ your reputation, I suppose. There’ll be a meeting of the parishioners called at the end of this week, and the rector won’t be present at it; so, Warden, I suppose you’ll preside. I hope you will. I’ve got to do my part—and that is to see that the parish understands just how their rector’s placed, right now, both about his house and his salary. He’s workin’ as a laborer to get enough for him and that little wife of his to live on, and the town knows it—but 280 they don’t all know that it’s because the salary that’s properly his is bein’ held back on him, and by those that pay their chauffeurs more than the rector gets, by a good piece. I shall call on every one at that meetin’ to pay up; and I shall begin with the poorest, and end up”—she fixed Bascom’s eye, significantly—“with the richest. And if it seems to be my duty to do it, I may have somethin’ more to say when the subscription’s closed—but I don’t believe—no,” she added, opening her bag and rummaging about among its contents till she hit upon a letter and brought it forth, “no, I don’t believe I’ll have to say a thing. I’ve got a hunch, Sylvester Bascom, that it’ll be you that’ll have the last word, after all.”

The old man’s glance was riveted upon the familiar handwriting of the faded letter, and without a word Hepsey started to read it, date and all, in a clear voice:

Willow Bluff, Durford.
September ––, 19—.

Hepsey dear:

I suppose you will never forgive me for making the move from the old house to Willow Bluff, as it’s to be called, while you were not home to help me. But they got finished sooner than we thought for, and 281 Sylvester was as eager as a child with a new toy to get moved in. So here we are, and the first letter I write from our new home is to you, who helped more than anyone to make the old home happy for me and mine—bless them and bless you!

Everything is out of the old house—“The Rectory” as I shall call it, now—except such pieces of furniture as we did not want to take away, and we thought might be welcome to the parson (or parsons, I suppose) who may occupy it. Sister Susan thought it slighting to Pa’s generosity to give the house to the church; but I don’t look at it like that. Anyway, it’s done now—and I’m very happy to think that the flock can offer a proper home to its shepherd, as long as the old place stands.

If you get back Thursday I shall just be ready for you to help me with the shades and curtains, if you care to.

Your friend,
Marion Anderson Bascom.

P. S. Ginty sends her love to Aunt Hepsey, and says, “to come to Boston quick!” She’s a little confused, someway, and can’t get it out of her head that we’re not back home in Boston, since we left the old place. I hope you are having a nice visit with Sally.

As Hepsey read, Sylvester Bascom turned, slowly, away from her, his head on his hand, gazing out of the window. When she had finished reading, the letter was folded up and replaced in the bag along with her knitting. Then, laying her hand with a gentle, firm pressure on the old man’s shoulder, Mrs. Burke departed.