PEACE INTERVIEWS THE BISHOP
"Well," sighed the President, laying down the evening paper and leaning
wearily back among the cushions of his great Morris chair, "it really
looks as if South Avenue Church is to have Dr. Henry Shumway for its
pastor this year."
Mrs. Campbell glanced up hastily from her sewing with consternation in
her eyes and asked, "Has the bishop really confirmed the report?"
"No, but he won't deny it, either. According to an article in this
paper, our beloved Dr. Glaves is to be transferred to the Iowa
Conference, and Dr. Shumway takes his place."
"I sh'd think you'd be glad enough to see Dr. Glaves go," remarked an
abstracted voice from the corner of the room where Peace and Allee were
absorbed in the task of sorting and stringing bright-colored beads. "He
reminds me of tombstones and _seminaries_,--not only his name, but the
_pomperous_ way he has of crawling up the aisle. He walks like a stone
_yimage_."
"Porpoise, you mean," gently suggested Allee.
"Pompous," corrected the President, smiling a little at their blunders.
"I can't say I am exactly sorry to see the Reverend Philander N. Glaves
transferred,"--his tone was mildly sarcastic,--"for he was a misfit in
South Avenue Church. We didn't want him in the first place, but we tried
to be decent to him during his year's sojourn with us. However, that's
neither here nor there. When three times in succession we are given a
man we don't want, I think it is time to kick. We have quietly accepted
the other two men when we wanted Dr. Atkinson, but now--"
"You oughtn't to kick the preacher," mused Peace, studying the effect of
some green and purple beads together. "He has to go where he is sent,
doesn't he?"
"Ye--s," reluctantly conceded the President.
"Then 'tisn't his fault if he gets stuck in a good-for-nothing church
which he doesn't want--"
"South Avenue Church is considered one of the choicest pastorates our
Conference affords," hastily interrupted Dr. Campbell, while his wife
quickly buried her face in her sewing again, to hide the smile dancing
in her eyes.
"Is it?" Peace looked genuinely surprised. "It's always scrapping. _I'd_
hate to be its preacher. Papa had a _nawful_ time in his last church
'cause they picked on him to scrap about. He got sent where he didn't
want to go, and in the end he had to quit,--just plumb worn out by being
jumped on. He was a good man, too."
The President looked uncomfortable. "But Peace," he argued, "you are too
young to understand such matters. I haven't the slightest doubt that Dr.
Shumway is a good man and an excellent preacher. In fact, he comes most
highly recommended. We aren't objecting to him personally. It's the
principle of the thing--"
"Well, if the Pendennis Church people had kicked the principle instead
of Papa, maybe he'd be a live preacher yet and not an angel."
Dr. Campbell lapsed into silence. What was the use of arguing with a
child? He was tired from a strenuous day's work at the University and
disgusted with the bishop's pig-headed perversity. It was early in the
evening yet, but perhaps bed was the best place for him in his state of
mind; so excusing himself and bidding the trio good-night, he stalked
off upstairs.
Peace had forgotten all about the bishop and Dr. Shumway when she awoke
the next morning, and might have paid no more attention to the South
Avenue Church discussions, had she not chanced to overhear a
conversation not intended for her ears. It was after luncheon, Cherry
and Allee had returned to school, the older sisters were not expected
for hours yet, and Peace was just composing herself for a nap, having
nothing else to fill in the long afternoon until school should close for
the day, when the telephone bell rang, and Mrs. Campbell herself
answered it.
Thinking it might be a message from her St. Elspeth or Aunt Pen, who
never were too busy to remember the little prisoner at the other end of
the city, Peace popped her head up to listen, and heard her grandmother
say slowly and with evident regret, "I'm so sorry, Mrs. York, but I
don't see how I can.--O, yes, indeed, I had planned on it, but
circumstances, you know.--She's doing nicely, but I can't very well
leave her alone all the afternoon.--No, but the two smaller girls are in
school until half-past three, Gail and Faith have recitations up through
the sixth hour at the University, and Hope went with her class to view
that collection of antiquities at the Public Library.--Well, you see,
this is Gussie's afternoon out, and--No, never with Marie.--I had
counted upon Hope's being here to keep her company.--I am sorry to
disappoint you, but I assure you I am very much more disappointed on my
own account--"
"Grandma!"
"Good-bye. I suppose I shall see you Sunday!"
"Grandma!"
"All right. Good-bye."
"Grandma! Can't you hear me?"
"Yes, dearie, but I was at the telephone."
"I know it, and I wanted you to tell Mrs. York that you'd come."
"But, childie, I can't leave you here all alone. You and Marie--"
"Fight. Yes, I know. But you might take me along. Couldn't you?"
Mrs. Campbell was startled. This was the first time since the accident
that Peace had showed any desire to go beyond the boundaries of the
garden; and the woman glanced suspiciously at the eager face, thinking
that the suggestion meant a sacrifice of the child's own wishes. But the
eyes were shining with their old-time enthusiasm, and Mrs. Campbell
said hesitatingly, "It's a Missionary Conference, dear."
"I always did like missionary meetings," Peace reminded her.
"But this will be different,--mostly statistics, reports and
discussions. I am afraid you would find it very dull."
"Women can be awfully dull sometimes," Peace admitted cheerfully. "But
you want to go, I haven't anything to do, and I might just as well be
watching the crowds there as taking a nap here at home. Then both of us
would be amused, while here, you would be thinking of what you'd missed,
and I'd be just itching for something to do."
"But supposing the proceedings don't amuse you?" smiled the woman.
"Then I'll go to sleep like Deacon Skinner always did in Parker. Or I
might take along something to read, s'posing things get too awfully
dry."
"Would you really like to go?" Mrs. Campbell was still a little
doubtful, though from her manner of glancing at the clock, and then down
the street, it was evident that she herself very much desired to attend
that afternoon's session of the Conference.
"Sure," Peace answered promptly, and Mrs. Campbell allowed herself to be
persuaded. So half an hour later the brown-eyed maid found herself
trundling down the familiar streets in her wheel-chair.
It was a clear, cold day, and the crisp air smelled of fallen leaves
and bonfires; and both woman and child sniffed hungrily at the delicious
odors of Autumn. Peace was almost reluctant to enter the big church when
they reached it, for the lure of the open air was great, the blue sky
charming, and even the leafless trees and frost-blackened shrubs were
enticing.
Once inside the building, however, she forgot all else in watching the
crowd of enthusiastic ladies trotting to and fro and mingling with the
throng of black-frocked ministers gathered for the closing sessions of
the Annual Conference. Even when the meeting was called to order and the
afternoon's business begun, Peace did not lose her interest, though she
understood very little of what was going on, and wondered how her
grandmother or any other sensible soul could be interested in the long
lists of stupid figures that were read from time to time.
"Sounds 's if they were learning their multiplication tables," she
giggled, "and when they all get to gabbling at once,--that's the Chinese
of it."
"What's the Chinese of it, if I may ask?" inquired a deep voice in her
ear; and thinking it was her beloved St. John, she whirled about to find
a friendly-eyed stranger just sitting down in the pew behind her chair.
She had forgotten her surroundings, and had spoken her thoughts aloud.
"Mercy!" she gasped. "I thought I had this corner all to myself. I never
s'pected anyone was near enough to hear what I said. Once before I did
that same thing, and a minister caught me at it that time, too. Your
voice sounds like his,--deep and bull-froggy. I 'most called you St.
John before I saw it was someone else. Are you a missionary?"
"O, no. Just a--"
"Plain preacher?" finished Peace, as he hesitated a moment with his
sentence incomplete.
"Yes, just a plain preacher," he laughed.
"Well, I thought you had a missionaryish look about you. That's why I
asked. I've been trying all the afternoon to sort out the gang--"
"Do what?" He was frankly amazed.
"Now I s'pose I've shocked you," she cried penitently. "Grandma doesn't
like me to use such words, but I keep forgetting. I meant I'd been
trying to pick out the missionaries and ministers, and the bishop. I
'specially wanted a look at the bishop, but I haven't seen a wink of him
yet."
"And why are you so anxious to see the bishop, my girl?" asked her newly
found acquaintance, smiling in amusement. "He surely ought to be
flattered--"
"I want to see if he looks beery."
"Beery!" The broad face of her companion looked like an enlarged
exclamation point.
"Yes,--he's got such a beery name. Fancy a man called Malthouse being a
minister, and a bishop at that! I couldn't help wondering if his face
fitted his job any better than his name."
"Well--as to that--I'm not--prepared to say," stammered the big man
beside her.
"Don't you know him?"
"O, yes, quite well."
"Is he good-looking?"
"Well, you know folks differ in their ideas of what good-looking means,"
he hedged, seeming somewhat embarrassed.
"I took that _extinguished_ looking man over there in the corner for the
bishop--"
"Extinguished?"
"Yes, the one with the extra long tails on his coat and bushy white
hair; but he's been opening and shutting windows all day long, and I
expect they'd give the bishop something better than that to do."
The puzzled divine glanced curiously in the direction the child's thin
forefinger was pointing, and chuckled outright as he beheld the aged
figure of the new janitor moving slowly down the aisle with the long
window-stick in his hand. "So you think he looks like a bishop?" he
managed to articulate soberly.
"Yes, I do. He's the best-looking man in the bunch. He's so tall and
straight, too, and so--so bishop-y in the set of his clothes. They fit
him. But he doesn't jabber as much as the rest. I s'pose 'twould be just
like the things that happen to me to find out that that giant bean-pole
which keeps teetering around the room is the bishop." She indicated a
very tall, very slender man, who at that moment chanced to pass their
retreat.
"No," her companion answered promptly, "that is not the bishop. His
name is Shumway,--Dr. Shumway--"
"Dr. Shumway!" echoed the child. "The man the bishop is going to send to
our church? Well, I don't wonder the people mean to kick! Ain't he the
homeliest ever?"
"Who told you that?" gravely asked the stranger preacher, all the smile
gone from his kindly eyes.
"That he's homely? No one. I can see it for myself."
"I mean who told you that the people intend to kick?"
"Oh! Grandpa was talking to Grandma last evening. The paper said Dr.
Shumway was to take the place of Dr. Glaves. It's a pity they can't
divide up, ain't it? Dr. Glaves would look less like an elephant if he
didn't have so much meat on him and Dr. Shumway needs a lot more'n he's
got."
"Who is your grandfather?" interrupted the man beside her, ignoring the
candid criticisms of his entertainer.
"Dr. Campbell, President of the State University," she answered proudly.
"Oh!" He was silent a moment; then as if musing aloud, he murmured, "So
they mean to kick, do they?"
"Well, wouldn't you? This is the third time South Avenue Church has
asked for one partic'lar man and got a different fellow. It's time they
kicked, seems to me. I guess the bishop likes to lord it over the
churches and have his own way in things."
"Perhaps he thinks he knows best what kind of a man is needed in his
different charges."
"P'r'aps he does, but he made an awful bungle when he sent Dr. Glaves
down here,--that's sure."
"Possibly that was a mistake," replied her companion in a queer,
strained voice. "But no one is sorrier than the bishop himself when he
blunders."
"Then I sh'd think he would be more careful about giving us another
misfit. We are tired of 'em."
"Dr. Shumway is a man whom everyone loves," said the ministerial-looking
gentleman warmly.
"I'm glad of that, then; but I am sorry he is coming to South Avenue
Church just the same. He doesn't look as if he could stand being kicked
any more'n Papa could. Has he got any children?"
"Yes, five, I believe."
"Any my size?"
"I think his family is pretty well grown up, my girl."
"That's lucky, for if the church _should_ happen to wear him out like
they did Papa, why, his children could take care of themselves when he
died and not have to dig like we did, and fin'ly be adopted or else sent
to the poor farm."
The big man fidgeted in his pew and looked quite uncomfortable as the
relentless voice continued, "I sh'd hate to be a bishop and have such
things blamed onto me; but if the bishop hadn't _insisted_ on sending
Papa to that Pendennis Church when they had asked for someone else,
maybe he might be living with his family yet, instead of with the
angels."
"Who was your Papa?" the gruff voice gently asked.
"Peter Greenfield."
"Oh!"
"Did you know him?"
"Yes. Yes, indeed. He was one of my--I am the--I knew him well. He was a
good preacher and a splendid man. The Church suffered a great loss in
his death."
"His family suffered a worser one, 'cause Mamma got sick and then we had
two angels behind the Gates, and no one here to tell us what to do, and
Gail not eighteen."
"Tell me about it."
The missionary meeting had long since dissolved into several committee
meetings, and the hum of voices in the great auditorium drowned the
conversation in the dim recess at the rear of the room; but Peace had
entirely forgotten her surroundings, and without restraint she poured
out the simple story of her father's sacrifices in her concise, forceful
way, laying bare family secrets and relating with telling effect the
pathetic struggle of the six sisters left alone to face the battle with
the world.
"And then we came to live with Grandpa and Grandma Campbell," she
finished. "They are just like truly relations to us, but they can never
make up for our own father and mother, any more than we can really take
the place of their own little girls which died. Why, has the Conference
quit? Everybody's bustling all around the room now. I wonder where
Grandma went? Is it time to go home?"
"In a moment or two," replied the man, thoughtfully stroking his
smoothly-shaven chin. "Some of the committees are evidently still in
session."
"And I never looked at Allee's Album all the while I was here! I had to
come, else Grandma couldn't, 'cause the girls are all in school 'xcept
Hope, and she has gone to see the _iniquities_ at the Library. So I
brought this along to keep myself awake with, 'cause I thought it would
likely be a stupid, sleepy meeting today. They always are when a lot of
fat old ladies get to talking _ecstatics_,"--she meant statistics--"but
I've had a very nice time listening and watching those funny preachers;
and I'm glad you came along to talk to me--"
"Bishop Malthouse!" someone from the rostrum shouted.
The dignified gentleman rose hastily, stooped and kissed the white cheek
of the child, and departed after a hurried, "Sounds as if I was wanted."
At that moment Mrs. Campbell rustled up to the little recess where the
wheel-chair stood, glanced apprehensively at the figure reclining among
the cushions, and briskly asked, "Tired, dearie?"
"No, Grandma. I've had a lovely time. But who is that minister just
going up the aisle?"
Mrs. Campbell glanced over her shoulder. "Bishop Malthouse, dear."
"Bishop--!" Words failed her.
"Yes, the man who appoints the ministers of this Conference."
"O, Grandma! And I told him some dreadful things about himself. We've
been talking most of the afternoon."
Mrs. Campbell's heart smote her. "What did you say to him, girlie?"
Peace briefly recounted their conversation as she remembered it, and
sighed tragically, "I talk too much. Faith says I tell all I know to
everyone I meet."
"That little tongue of yours does run away with itself sometimes,"
replied the woman, dismayed at Peace's revelations; but perceiving how
distressed the child felt over her blunder, she forbore to chide her;
and in silence they wound their way homeward.
The President was late for dinner that night, but when he did arrive,
the whole family knew from his very step that he was the bearer of good
news.
"Grandpa's glad," sang Peace, as he hurried into the room and took his
place at the table.
"Did--have you been--?" began Mrs. Campbell, hesitatingly.
"To the Official Board Meeting?" he finished. "Yes, that is why I am so
late."
"The meeting was in regard to the new preacher?"
"Yes, and the bishop was there in person."
"Oh!" Seven pair of eyes regarded him expectantly.
"He very frankly stated his reasons for not wishing to send us Dr.
Atkinson, and why he thought Dr. Shumway was the man for the place. Then
he left us to decide which minister we would have."
"And you chose--?"
"Dr. Shumway--unanimously."
Involuntarily Mrs. Campbell glanced across the table toward Peace; and
that young lady, busy buttering a hot roll, paused long enough to remark
complacently, "I guess the bishop ain't as lordy as he looks, after all,
is he?"