DOUGLAS was turning toward the house when the Widow Willoughby came
through the wicker gate to the left of the parsonage, carrying bunting
for the social. She was followed by Miss Perkins with a bucket of
pickles, which Mandy promptly placed on top of Mrs. Elverson's ice
cream. The women explained that they had come to put the finishing
touches to the decorations. If anything was needed to increase Mandy's
dislike of the widow, it was this announcement.
Mrs. Willoughby was greatly worried because her children had not been
home since the afternoon school session. Upon learning that they were
with Polly, she plainly showed her displeasure; and Douglas dispatched
Mandy for them. She saw that her implied distrust of Polly had annoyed
him, and she was about to apologise, when two of the deacons arrived on
the scene, also carrying baskets and parcels for the social.
Strong led the way. He always led the way and always told Elverson what
to think. They had been talking excitedly as they neared the parsonage,
for Strong disapproved of the recent changes which the pastor had made
in the church service. He and Douglas had clashed more than once since
the baseball argument, and the deacon had realised more and more that
he had met a will quite as strong as his own. His failure to bend the
parson to his way of thinking was making him irritable, and taking his
mind from his business.
“Can you beat that!” he would exclaim as he turned away from some
disagreement with Douglas, his temper ruffled for the day.
Polly was utterly unconscious of the unfriendly glances cast in her
direction as she came running into the garden, leading the widow's two
children.
She nodded gaily to Julia Strong, who was coming through the gate, then
hurried to Mrs. Willoughby, begging that the children be allowed to
remain a little longer. She was making up a new game, she said, and
needed Willie and Jennie for the set.
“My children do not play in promiscuous games,” said the widow, icily.
“Oh, but this isn't pro-pro-pro”--Polly stammered. “It's a new game. You
put two here, and two here, and----”
“I don't care to know.” The widow turned away, and pretended to talk to
Julia.
“Oh!” gasped Polly, stunned by the widow's rebuff.
She stood with bowed head in the centre of the circle. The blood flew
from her cheeks, then she turned to go.
Douglas stepped quickly to her side. “Wait a minute,” he said. She
paused, all eyes were turned upon them. “Is this a game that grown-ups
can play?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Good! Then I'll make up your set. I need a little amusement just now.
Excuse me,” he added, turning to the deacons. Then he ran with her out
through the trees.
The deacons and the women stared at each other, aghast.
“Well, what do you think of that?” said Mrs. Willoughby, as the flying
skirts of the girl and the black figure of the man disappeared up the
path.
“I think it's scandalous, if you are talking to me,” said Miss Perkins.
“The idea of a full-grown parson a-runnin' off to play children's games
with a circus ridin' girl!”
“She isn't such a child,” sneered Julia.
“It's ENOUGH to make folks talk,” put in Mrs. Willoughby, with a sly
look at the deacons.
“And me a-waitin' to discuss the new church service,” bellowed Strong.
“And me a-waiting to give him Mrs. Elverson's message,” piped Elverson.
“The church bore all this in silence so long as that girl was sick,”
snapped Miss Perkins. “But now she's perfectly well, and still a-hanging
on. No wonder folks are talking.”
“Who's talking?” thundered Strong.
“Didn't you know?” simpered Mrs. Willoughby, not knowing herself nor
caring, so long as the suspicion grew.
“Know what?” yelled the excited deacon. Mrs. Willoughby floundered. Miss
Perkins rushed into the breach.
“Well, if _I_ was deacon of this church, it seems to me I'd know
something about what's going on in it.”
“What IS goin' on?” shrieked the now desperate deacon.
The women looked at him pityingly, exchanged knowing glances, then shook
their heads at his hopeless stupidity.
Strong was not accustomed to criticism. He prided himself upon his
acuteness, and was, above all, vain about his connection with the
church. He looked from one woman to the other. He was seething with
helpless rage. The little deacon at his side coughed nervously. Strong's
pent up wrath exploded. “Why didn't YOU tell me, Elverson, that people
was a-talkin',” he roared in the frightened man's ear.
Elverson sputtered and stammered, but nothing definite came of the
sounds; so Strong again turned to Miss Perkins:
“What is going on?” he demanded.
The spinster shrugged her shoulders and lifted her eyes heavenward,
knowing that nothing could so madden the deacon as this mysterious
inference of things too terrible to mention. She was right. Strong
uttered a desperate “Bah!” and began pacing up and down the garden with
reckless strides.
Mrs. Willoughby watched him with secret delight, and when he came to a
halt, she wriggled to his side with simpering sweetness.
“What COULD folks say?” she asked. “A minister and a young circus riding
girl living here like this with no one to--” She found no words at this
point and Strong, now thoroughly roused, declared that the congregation
should have no further cause for gossip, and went out quickly in search
of Douglas.
When Strong was gone, Elverson looked at the set faces of the women, and
attempted a weak apology for the pastor. “I dare say the young man was
very lonely--very--before she came.”
“Lonely?” snapped Miss Perkins. “Well, if HE was LONELY, _I_ didn't know
it.”
The deacon excused himself nervously, and went to join Strong.
The women gathered up their buntings, and retired with bland smiles to
the Sunday-school-room, feeling that they had accomplished enough for
the time being.
Strong and Elverson crossed the yard, still in search of the pastor.
They turned at the sound of fluttering leaves and beheld Douglas,
hatless, tearing down the path. Strong called to him, but Douglas
darted quickly behind the hedge. The deacons looked at one another in
speechless astonishment. Presently the silence was broken by the distant
voice of Polly counting from one to one hundred. The secret was out! The
pastor, a leader of the church, was playing hide-and-seek.
“Mr. Douglas!” shouted Strong, when his breath had returned.
“Hush, hush!” whispered Douglas, looking over the hedge. He peeped
cautiously about him, then came toward the men with a sigh of relief.
“It's all right. She has gone the other way.”
“It'll be a good thing for you if she never comes back,” said Strong,
and Douglas's quick ear caught an unpleasant meaning in his tone.
“What's that?” the pastor asked, in a low, steady voice.
“We don't like some of the things that are going on here, and I want to
talk to you about 'em.”
“Very well, but see if you can't talk in a lower key.”
“Never mind about the key,” shouted Strong, angrily.
“But I DO mind.” Something in his eyes made the deacon lower his voice.
“We want to know how much longer that girl is goin' to stay here?”
“Indeed! And why?” The colour was leaving Douglas's face, and his jaw
was becoming very square.
“Because she's been here long enough.”
“I don't agree with you there.”
“Well, it don't make no difference whether you do or not. She's got to
go.”
“Go?” echoed Douglas.
“Yes, sir-e-bob. We've made up our minds to that.”
“And who do you mean by 'we'?”
“The members of this congregation,” replied Strong, impatiently.
“Am I to understand that YOU are speaking for THEM?” There was a deep
frown between the young pastor's eyes. He was beginning to be perplexed.
“Yes, and as deacon of this church.”
“Then, as deacon of this church, you tell the congregation for me that
that is MY affair.”
“Your affair!” shouted Strong. “When that girl is living under the
church's roof, eating the church's bread!”
“Just one moment! You don't quite understand. I am minister of this
church, and for that position I receive, or am supposed to receive, a
salary to live on, and this parsonage, rent free, to live in. Any
guests that I may have here are MY guests, and NOT guests of the church.
Remember that, please.”
There was an embarrassing silence. The deacons recalled that the
pastor's salary WAS slightly in arrears. Elverson coughed meekly. Strong
started.
“You keep out of this, Elverson!” he cried. “I'm running this affair and
I ain't forgetting my duty nor the parson's.”
“I shall endeavour to do MY duty as I see it,” answered Douglas, turning
away and dismissing the matter.
“Your duty is to your church,” thundered Strong.
“You're right about that, Deacon Strong'” answered Douglas, wheeling
about sharply, “and my duty to the church is reason enough for my acting
exactly as I am doing in this case.”
“Is your duty to the church the ONLY reason you keep that girl here?”
“No, there are other reasons.”
“I thought so.”
“You've heard her story--you MUST have heard. She was left with me by an
old clown who belonged in the circus where she worked. Before he died
he asked me to look after her. She has no one else. I shall certainly do
so.”
“That was when she was hurt. She's well now, and able to go back where
she came from. Do you expect us to have our young folks associatin' with
a circus ridin' girl?”
“So, that's it!” cried the pastor, with a pitying look. “You think this
child is unfit for your homes because she was once in a circus. For
some reason, circus to you spells crime. You call yourself a Christian,
Deacon Strong, and yet you insist that I send a good, innocent girl
back to a life which you say is sinful. I'm ashamed of you, Strong--I'm
ashamed of you!”
“That talk don't do no good with me,” roared Strong. He was desperate at
being accused of an unchristian attitude.
“I ain't askin' you to send her back to the circus. I don't care WHERE
you send her. Get her away from HERE, that's all.”
“Not so long as she wishes to stay.”
“You won't?” Strong saw that he must try a new attack. He came close to
Douglas and spoke with a marked insinuation. “If you was a friend to
the girl, you wouldn't want the whole congregation a-pointin' fingers at
her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you're living here alone with her and it looks bad--bad for
the girl, and bad for YOU--and folks is talkin'.”
“Are you trying to tell me that my people are evil-minded enough to
think that I--” Douglas stopped. He could not frame the question. “I
don't believe it,” he concluded shortly.
“You'll be MADE to believe it if you don't get rid of that girl.”
“Do YOU believe it?” He turned upon the little man at his side! “Do you
believe it, Elverson?”
Elverson had been so accustomed to Strong monopolising the conversation,
that he had become hopelessly lost as the discussion went on, and the
sudden appeal to him all but paralysed his power of speech. He was still
gurgling and sputtering when Strong interrupted, impatiently.
“It makes no difference whether we believe it or not. We're going to do
our duty by the church, and that girl must leave or----”
“Or I must.” Douglas pieced out Strong's phrase for himself. “That
threat doesn't frighten me at all, deacon. After what you have said,
I should refuse to remain in this church”--the deacon stepped forward
eagerly--“were it not that I realise more than ever before how much
you need me, how much you ignorant, narrow-minded creatures need to
be taught the meaning of true Christianity.” The deacon was plainly
disappointed.
“Is it possible?” gasped Elverson, weakly.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Strong, when he could
trust himself to speak again.
“I shall do what is best for Miss Polly,” said the pastor quietly but
firmly.
He turned away to show that the interview was at an end. Strong followed
him. Douglas pointed to the gate with a meaning not to be mistaken.
“Good afternoon, deacon.”
Strong hesitated. He looked at the pastor, then at the gate, then at the
pastor again. “I'll go,” he shouted; “but it ain't the end!” He slammed
the gate behind him.
“Quite so, quite so,” chirped Elverson, not having the slightest idea of
what he was saying. He saw the frigid expression on the pastor's face,
he coughed behind his hat, and followed Strong.