THE NEW PASTOR OF SOUTH AVENUE CHURCH
"Marie, if that is anyone to see Grandma, show them in here, and tell
'em she will be back in a few minutes. Well, that's what she said to do
when she went out." For Marie had paused uncertainly on her way to
answer the doorbell, and eyed Peace skeptically.
"O, very well," retorted the maid crossly. "But mind your manners and be
a lady."
Before Peace could think of a suitable reply to that studied insult, the
girl had flung open the door and ushered in a very tall, angular person,
who at first sight seemed all arms and legs. But when one caught a
glimpse of his face, one straightway forgot all other characteristics,
for in rugged homeliness it would have been hard to surpass him, and yet
there was a striking kindliness of feature, a certain gentleness of eye
that instantly drew people to him, so that instinctively they knew him
to be their friend. Up into this face sulky Peace found herself staring,
as the tall figure crossed the parlor threshold, and came to meet her
with hand outstretched in greeting.
"How do you do?" a rich voice rumbled. "Are you the mistress of the
house today?"
"You're as homely as Abraham Lincoln," she gasped, scarcely aware that
she had spoken aloud. "In fact, you look very much like his
pictures,--as much as a gray, bald-headed, whiskerless man could look
like a black-bearded one."
"Thanks," he laughed genially. "That is the greatest compliment anyone
could pay me. I only wish I were as noble a man."
"We grow to be like our highest ideas," Peace answered primly, recalling
a little lecture she had received that morning. "You are Dr. Shumway,
ain't you? Pastor of South Avenue Church?"
"Yes, mademoiselle; and you are one of Dr. Campbell's granddaughters?"
"By adoption. My name is Peace Greenfield, and my father and real
grandfather were ministers in their time. That's why I am so much
interested in preachers. Have you any children?" she asked.
"Five," he answered, amused at the grown-up air she had assumed. "How
many are there of you?"
"Six. Four older'n me and just Allee younger. The bishop said he thought
all of yours were grown up. Are they?"
"We--ll, none of them are very small now. Pansy is the youngest, and she
is nearly fourteen."
"Pansy! Of all names! I s'pose she is as big as an elephant, ain't she?"
"She _is_ rather large for her age," acknowledged the surprised
minister, hardly knowing how to receive these candid remarks of his
youthful hostess.
"All the Pansies I ever knew were," sighed Peace. "I don't see why
people will name their biggest children Pansy."
"But how is one to tell how fat a child will be when it grows up?"
argued the puzzled man.
"It's never safe to name a baby Pansy. It's sure to be a whale. Besides,
Pansy isn't a pretty name for a _person_. It is all right for a flower,
but for a real live thing--well, ministers do have awfully queer notions
about pretty names, anyway. Are all your children girls?"
"No, only four. Keturah, Caroline, Penelope and Pansy."
"Mercy! What outrageous names! It is very plain that _you_ didn't go to
the Bible for your children, but you couldn't have done any worse if you
had."
"Why, child, what do you mean?" gasped the thoroughly uncomfortable
pastor, mentally deciding that this was the rudest specimen of humanity
that he had ever met in his life.
"Well, you see after my sister Gail was born and named after Mamma,
Grandpa came to stay with us and while he lived he took the job of
naming the rest of us,--all but Allee. He died before she came. But he
hunted out words from the Bible to call us, and they are all misfits but
Hope."
"Hope is a very pretty name," murmured the minister, somewhat
hesitatingly.
"Yes, and Hope is a very pretty girl, too. The name and the girl go
together all right in that case. But look at Faith and Cherry--her real
name is Charity--and me. Look at my name. There ain't a thing peaceful
about me. I seem bound to make a stir wherever I go, no matter how hard
I try to be good. It just ain't _in_ me to be quiet and keep my mouth
shut. Now, if Grandpa had waited till I grew up, he never would have
called me 'Peace.' Still, I'm glad he didn't call me 'Catarrh.' That's
outlandish. I thought that was something which ailed folks."
"Catarrh is," agreed Dr. Shumway, amusement supplanting the indignation
which he had felt welling up within him. "My girl's name is Keturah. We
call her Kitty--"
"Yes, I s'pose so. The girls named Kitty are always big and homely,
too."
"Well, our Kitty is neither big nor homely--"
"O, doesn't she look like you?"
He smiled grimly. "No," he answered. "She resembles her angel mother."
"Have you got an angel in your family, too?" Peace's brown eyes were
softly tender, and the busy minister suddenly loved the talkative little
sprite who was so very frank in her observations.
"Yes, two. The mother of my five children, and my only grandson,
Keturah's child."
"A baby?"
"Yes." His eyes sought the live embers in the great fireplace, and he
sat apparently lost in thought.
Peace sighed and was thoughtfully silent a moment; then as the pause
grew oppressive to her, she observed, "So Keturah's married."
The minister looked up startled, then smiled in amusement. "Yes, and
Caroline also, but Carrie has no children."
"Who keeps house for you if your wife is an angel and your biggest
children are married? Do they live with you still?"
"O, no. Both girls have homes of their own in other towns. My sister
Anne stays with us, and with the help of Penelope and Pansy manages the
house very well."
"What did you do with your boy? You haven't said a word about him yet."
"Dickson? O, he doesn't live at home any more, either. He is a doctor at
Danbury Hospital in Fairview. He is getting to be quite a remarkable
surgeon and we are all proud of him, I can tell you."
"How nice!" exclaimed Peace, glancing involuntarily at the slippered
feet resting on the cushioned stool of Dr. Campbell's great Morris
chair. "I wish we had a good doctor in our family. Then p'r'aps _he_
could make me walk again."
"Walk again!" Amazement, consternation showed in the minister's face,
and his eyes also sought the useless little feet on their cushion. "Why,
child," he whispered, all the pity and sympathy of his great heart
throbbing in his voice, "are _you_ lame?"
It seemed incredible, and yet he recalled now that all the while he had
sat there listening to her chatter, those gay slippers had not once
moved.
"Yes," Peace answered simply, surprised at his question. "Didn't you
know that before?"
He shook his head.
"I'll have to live in chairs all my life," she explained. "They _said_
maybe after a time I could have crutches, but it's my back that's hurt
and crutches won't be much good to me, I guess. I _clum_ a roof and
fell--oh, months and months ago."
Briefly she recounted the unlucky adventure and the sad, weary days that
had followed, while the preacher listened spell-bound,--shocked at the
sorrowful tale.
When she had finished, his quivering lips whispered tenderly, "Poor
little girl!" and two great tears stole down his rugged cheeks.
Peace was deeply touched at this unusual display of sympathy, and laying
her thin little hand on his knee, she said softly, "I love you." There
was a pause. Then before Dr. Shumway could think of any appropriate
words in which to voice his turbulent thoughts, the crippled girl
abruptly exclaimed, "Why, do you know, you've got eyes like my cat!"
The reverend gentleman fairly bounced from his chair in his
astonishment. "Eyes like your c--cat!" he stuttered.
"Yes," Peace calmly answered. "One brown and one blue. I've been
watching you ever since you came in, trying to make out why you looked
so queer, and now I know,--it's your eyes. Does it feel any different
having two colors instead of one?"
"N--o," he managed to reply, still staring with fascinated eyes at the
child in the chair opposite.
"Well, I should think it would," she began, but at that moment there was
a brisk step on the wide veranda, the front door opened and Mrs.
Campbell entered.
Dr. Shumway rose to meet her, and Peace's interview with the new pastor
of South Avenue Church was at an end.
But the face of the small cripple haunted the minister, her pathetic
story lingered in his mind, and he found himself constantly thinking of
the long, weary years of helpless waiting stretching out before her.
"O, it can't be," he protested over and over again. "She was never meant
for a life like that! Activity is written all over her. She is right
when she says she can't keep quiet. What wonderful good such energy
could accomplish if trained in the right direction! I wonder if
Dickson--I believe I will write him. No, it would be better for him to
see her first without having heard anything about the case. How can we
bring it to pass?"
Straightway he began to plan how he might carry out a certain scheme
which was gradually taking shape in his brain, until at length a
practicable idea at last presented itself and he broached the subject to
the other members of his household.
They were seated at the dinner table one night when he casually
observed to his two youngest daughters, "Girls, what do you think of a
Christmas party at the parsonage this year? Can we manage one?"
"A Christmas party!" gasped both girls in dismay.
Even his sister Anne stared at him aghast.
"Well, why not?" he inquired, when no one ventured an explanation of the
family's evident consternation.
"I don't know how to entertain," wailed Pansy. "I'm too clumsy."
"We are hardly settled here," ventured sister Anne deprecatingly.
"Keturah is coming home for Christmas," whispered Penelope.
"So are Dick and Carrie," said the preacher briskly. "We all will be
together once again and I want my whole family to meet the young folks
of my new flock. What if we aren't in apple-pie order? We'll be less so
by the time the party is over, I'll wager. As for Kitty,--I think we
better plan for our Christmas party."
"That settles it," whispered Pansy to the youngest sister, as her father
began to discuss some household problem with his sister. "But I'll bet
he's got some pet scheme up his sleeve. His party isn't just to
introduce us,--you see."
Penelope was shrewd in her observations and knew her father like a book,
but she did not guess his secret, nor was she particularly curious this
time. She did not want a Christmas party at the parsonage. It meant so
much work and clutter. Besides, it was so much nicer to have just a
little family gathering, such as they were accustomed to each year.
There would be Kitty and Ed, Carrie and Phil, and Dick.--Dickson was
still unmarried.--That would make five extra in the little family, and
five people were a plenty to plan for, without having a party. But then,
what was the use of objecting? Her father had said party, and a party
there would be. The only thing to do was to make the best of it and plan
the most unique program the brains of the whole household could devise.
So Aunt Anne, Penelope and Pansy set to work.
True to his convictions, Dr. Shumway wrote nothing of his plans to his
son, nor did he once mention his hopes to the distracted Campbell
family, although he had skilfully managed that his son's professional
reputation should reach the ears of them all. To be doubly sure that his
pet scheme should not fail, he gave Peace a personal invitation to
attend his Christmas party, and made several visits to the Campbell home
apparently to discuss his plans with members of that household, while in
reality his object was to rouse the invalid's curiosity and interest so
she would be sure to join the merrymakers at the parsonage on that night
of nights. Then Dickson could not fail to meet her and their
acquaintance would come about naturally. He could not feel that Dr.
Coates and the specialists had really found the seat of the trouble
yet, but Dickson would know if there was any hope for the little
sufferer. Dickson,--stalwart, genial, gentle Dickson,--his boy,--his boy
would know.
So it was with great eagerness that he looked forward to the Christmas
party, for Peace had solemnly promised to be there in her wheel-chair,
and it was hard to refrain from telling the whole story to his boy
before the time was ripe.
But when at last the night arrived, Peace was not among the guests who
thronged the gayly decorated parsonage. The old-time pain had come back,
and she lay white and spent upon her bed in the Flag Room, watching with
anguish in her heart while the other sisters made ready for the
festivities. They had demurred at leaving her. It seemed so selfish to
go and enjoy themselves when she must stay behind and suffer, but she
had insisted.
"Because I can't go to the _pastorage_ myself isn't any reason why you
should stick at home, too," she told them. "Besides, I want to know all
about it, and it takes the whole family to see _everything_."
"What in the world do you mean?" they chorused.
And she explained, "Well, Gail remembers the speeches and what folks say
just to each other. Faith hears only the music. Hope sees the pretty
things folks wear. Cherry tells what they had to eat, and Allee fills up
the chinks."
They laughed merrily at the small invalid's powers of discernment, and
were finally persuaded to attend the party which was barred to her. So
they donned their daintiest dresses, robbed the greenhouse for their
adornment, kissed the little sister fondly and hurried away into the
night. Peace listened to the sound of their footsteps crunching through
the hard-packed snow, until the last echo died away. Then turning her
face to the wall, she gave way to a flood of bitter tears.
"Why, darling," cried the watchful Mrs. Campbell, kneeling beside the
sobbing child and striving to soothe and comfort her, "what is the
matter? Did you want to go so badly?"
"No, no, it ain't that," poor Peace hiccoughed, burying her head on the
grandmotherly shoulder. "But I thought I was 'most well, and now the
hurt has begun again. I ain't crying 'cause the girls have gone, truly.
It's just that dreadful ache in my back. O, Grandma, am I going to be
like my Lilac Lady after all? She had well days when she could read and
sew; and then there were times when the pain was so bad that she
couldn't bear to see folks at all. I don't want to die, but oh, Grandma,
how can I stand that awful ache?"
"O God," prayed the woman's heart, torn with agony at the sight of her
darling's suffering, "help us to make it easier for her."
And as if in answer to her petition, there was a step on the stair, and
a big, stalwart, fur-coated figure stood unannounced in the doorway.
Mrs. Campbell rose hurriedly to her feet and confronted the stranger.
What right had he in her house? How came he there?
He smiled reassuringly at her look of alarm, and something in his
boyish face made Peace exclaim, "You look like Pansy Shumway, though
you're not so fat and homely."
At that, he laughed outright. "It's because I am her brother, I expect,"
he answered simply.
"O, are you Dr. Dick?" she cried eagerly.
"Yes," he replied. "They told me you could not come to our party, so I
have brought the party to you,--a bit of it, at least."
Fishing into the depths of his great pockets, he brought forth a
marvelous array of cakes, candies, nuts and pop-corn, finally producing
what looked to be a scarlet carnation in a tiny plantpot of rich loam,
but upon investigation Peace found that her little nosegay was merely a
flower thrust into a mound of chocolate ice-cream; and her delight made
her forget her pain for a moment.
"You're a reg'lar Santy Claus," she giggled. "Did you come down the
chimbley? I never heard the door bell."
"O, I met Prexy on the steps and he told me where to find you, so I came
right up without further invitation." He did not add that for more than
an hour he had been closeted with Dr. Campbell in the parsonage study,
where the anxious President had sought him to learn if there could be
any hope for their little Peace.
"I s'pose the door is a safer way of getting into houses than falling
down chimbleys would be," said the girl, pleased with her own fancies.
"But it would have seemed a little realer if you had tumbled out of the
fireplace. Where is your pack, and what have you brought for me?"
"What would you like best?" he parried, studying the drawn face among
the pillows.
"O, let me see--A new back, I guess," she sighed ruefully, as a sharp
twinge of pain recalled her to her surroundings and caused her to writhe
in agony, "and a pair of legs to match. You are a sure-enough doctor,
ain't you? Can't you mend me up again? The other doctors' job didn't
last very long."
"Perhaps if you will let me rub the little back--"
"O, I can't bear to have a doctor touch it!" she shuddered. "They always
make it hurt worse."
"I'll be very careful," he promised, "and if it hurts, I'll stop right
away."
Still she hesitated.
"'F I could just go to sleep," she sighed. "I'm so tired."
"You will go to sleep if you will let me rub the back a little."
She looked incredulous, but another stinging pain brought the tears to
her eyes, and she cried pitifully, "Yes, oh, yes,--just rub me now. It
does hurt so bad I can't help crying, and you don't look as if you liked
to poke people to pieces."
"It is my business to put people together again," he said gravely,
turning the pain-racked little body with deft hands, all the while
keeping up a lively chatter to amuse the small sufferer. So light was
his touch, so sympathetic his personality, that very soon the tense
muscles began to relax, the drawn lines in the childish face gradually
smoothed themselves away, and the brown eyes grew heavy with sleep.
Realizing that the Santa Claus stranger had kept his promise, Peace
murmured drowsily, as she felt herself drifting away to slumberland,
"You are a good doctor, Dr. Dick. I'll hire you the next time I fall off
a roof. I b'lieve you could have mended me up if you'd had first
chance."
"Please God, it may not be too late now," he muttered under his breath,
and stole softly from the room to report his convictions to Dr.
Campbell, who was waiting in the hall below.