WHEN John Douglas's uncle offered to educate his nephew for the
ministry, the boy was less enthusiastic than his mother. He did not
remonstrate, however, for it had been the custom of generations for at
least one son of each Douglas family to preach the gospel of Calvinism,
and his father's career as an architect and landscape gardener had not
left him much capital.
Douglas, senior, had been recognised as an artist by the few who
understood his talents, but there is small demand for the builder of
picturesque houses in the little business towns of the Middle West, and
at last he passed away, leaving his son only the burden of his financial
failure and an ardent desire to succeed at the profession in which his
father had fared so badly. The hopeless, defeated look on the departed
man's face had always haunted the boy, who was artist enough to feel his
father's genius intuitively, and human enough to resent the injustice of
his fate.
Douglas's mother had suffered so much because of the impractical efforts
of her husband, that she discouraged the early tendencies of the son
toward drawing and mathematics and tried to direct his thoughts toward
creeds and Bible history. When he went away for his collegiate course,
she was less in touch with him; and he was able to steal time from his
athletics to devote to his art. He spent his vacations in a neighbouring
city before a drawing board in the office of a distinguished architect,
his father's friend.
Douglas was not a brilliant divinity student, and he was relieved when
at last he received his degree in theology and found himself appointed
to a small church in the Middle West.
His step was very bright the morning he first went up the path that
led to his new home. His artistic sense was charmed by the picturesque
approach to the church and parsonage. The view toward the tree-encircled
spire was unobstructed, for the church had been built on the outskirts
of the town to allow for a growth that had not materialised. He threw
up his head and gazed at the blue hills, with their background of soft,
slow-moving clouds. The smell of the fresh earth, the bursting of the
buds, the forming of new life, set him thrilling with a joy that was
very near to pain.
He stopped half way up the path and considered the advantages of a new
front to the narrow-eaved cottage, and when his foot touched the first
step of the vine-covered porch, he was far more concerned about a new
portico than with any thought of his first sermon.
His speculations were abruptly cut short by Mandy, who bustled out
of the door with a wide smile of welcome on her black face, and an
unmistakable ambition to take him immediately under her motherly wing.
She was much concerned because the church people had not met the new
pastor at the station and brought him to the house. Upon learning that
Douglas had purposely avoided their escort, preferring to come to his
new home the first time alone, she made up her mind that she was going
to like him.
Mandy had long been a fixture in the parsonage. She and her worse half,
Hasty Jones, had come to know and discuss the weaknesses of the many
clergymen who had come and gone, the deacons, and the congregation, both
individually and collectively. She confided to Hasty, that she “didn't
blame de new parson fer not wantin' to mix up wid dat ar crowd.”
In the study that night, when she and Hasty helped Douglas to unpack his
many boxes of books, they were as eager as children about the drawings
and pictures which he showed them. His mind had gone beyond the
parsonage front now, and he described to them the advantage of adding an
extra ten feet to the church spire.
Mandy felt herself almost an artist when she and Hasty bade the pastor
good night, for she was still quivering from the contagion of Douglas's
enthusiasm. Here, at last, was a master who could do something besides
find fault with her.
“I jest wan' to be on de groun' de firs' time dat Mars Douglas and dat
ere Deacon Strong clinches,” she said to Hasty as they locked the
doors and turned out the hall light. “Did yuh done see his jaw?” she
whispered. “He look laughin' enough NOW, but jes' yuh wait till he done
set dat'ere jaw a his'n and afar ain't nobody what's goin' ter unsot
it.”
“Maybe dar ain't goin' ter be no clinchin',” said Hasty, hoping for
Mandy's assurance to the contrary.
“What?” shrieked Mandy. “Wid dat 'ere sneakin' Widow Willoughby already
a-tellin' de deacons how to start de new parson a-goin' proper?”
“Now, why you's always a-pickin' onto dat 'ere widow?” asked Hasty,
already enjoying the explosion which he knew his defence of the widow
was sure to excite.
“I don' like no woman what's allus braggin' 'bout her clean floors,”
answered Mandy, shortly. She turned out the last light, and tiptoed
upstairs, trying not to disturb the pastor.
John Douglas was busy already with pencil and paper, making notes of
the plans for the church and parsonage, which he would perfect later
on. Alas, for Douglas's day dreams! It was not many weeks before he
understood with a heavy heart that the deacons were far too dull and
uninspired to share his faith in beauty as an aid to man's spiritual
uplift.
“We think we've done pretty well by this church,” said Deacon Strong,
who was the business head, the political boss, and the moral mentor
of the small town's affairs. “Just you worry along with the preachin',
young man, and we'll attend to the buyin' and buildin' operations.”
Douglas's mind was too active to content itself wholly with the writing
of sermons and the routine of formal, pastoral calls. He was a keen
humanitarian, so little by little, he came to be interested in the heart
stories and disappointments of many of the village unfortunates, some of
whom were outside his congregation. The mentally sick, the despondent,
who needed words of hope and courage more than dry talks on theology,
found in him an ever ready friend and adviser, and these came to love
and depend on him. But he was never popular with the creed-bound element
of the church.
Mandy had her wish about being on the spot the first time that the
parson's jaw squared itself at Deacon Strong. The deacon had called
at the parsonage to demand that Douglas put a stop to the boys playing
baseball in the adjoining lot on Sunday. Douglas had been unable to see
the deacon's point of view. He declared that baseball was a healthy and
harmless form of exercise, that the air was meant to be breathed, and
that the boys who enjoyed the game on Sunday were principally those who
were kept indoors by work on other days. The close of the interview was
unsatisfactory both to Douglas and the deacon.
“Dey kinder made me cold an' prickly all up an' down de back,” Mandy
said later, when she described their talk to Hasty. “Dat 'ere deacon
don' know nuffin' 'bout gittin' 'roun' de parson.” She tossed her head
with a feeling of superiority. She knew the way. Make him forget himself
with a laugh. Excite his sympathy with some village underdog.