MANSERS
The introduction of Mrs. David Arnold Duke, née Methodist, to the
members of her husband's Presbyterian flock, was, for the most part,
consummated with grace and dignity. Only one untoward incident
lingered in her memory to cloud her lovely face with annoyance.
In honor of his very first honeymoon, hence his first opportunity to
escort a beautiful and blushing bride to the cozy little manse he had
so painstakingly prepared for her reception, the Reverend David
indulged in the unwonted luxury of a taxicab. And happy in the
consciousness of being absolutely correct as to detail, they were
driven slowly down the beautifully shaded avenues of the Heights, one
of the many charming suburbs of St. Louis,--aware of the scrutiny of
interested eyes from the sheltering curtains of many windows.
Being born and bred in the ministry, Carol acquitted herself properly
before the public eye. But once inside the guarding doors of the
darling manse, secure from the condemning witness of even the least of
the fold, she danced and sang and exulted as the very young, and very
glad, must do to find expression.
Their first dinner in the manse was more of a social triumph than a
culinary success. The coffee was nectar, though a trifle overboiled.
The gravy was sweet as honey, but rather inclined to be lumpy. And the
steak tasted like fried chicken, though Carol had peppered it twice and
salted it not at all. It wasn't her fault, however, for the salt and
pepper shakers in her "perfectly irresistible" kitchen cabinet were
exactly alike,--and how was she to know she was getting the same one
twice?
Anyhow, although they started very properly with plates on opposite
sides of the round table, by the time they reached dessert their chairs
were just half way round from where they began the meal, and the salad
dishes were so close together that half the time they ate from one and
half the time from the other. And when it was all over, they pushed
the dishes back and clasped their hands promiscuously together and
talked with youthful passion of what they were going to do, and how
wonderful their opportunity for service was, and what revolutions they
were going to work in the lives of the nice, but no doubt prosy
mansers, and how desperately they loved each other. And it was going
to last forever and ever and ever.
So far they were just Everybride and Everygroom. Their hearts sang and
the manse was more gorgeous than any mansion on earth, and all the
world was good and sweet, and they couldn't possibly ever make any kind
of a mistake or blunder, for love was guiding them,--and could pure
love lead astray?
David at last looked at his watch and said, rather hurriedly:
"By the way, I imagine a few of our young people will drop in to-night
for a first smile from the manse lady."
Carol leaped from her chair, jerked off the big kitchen apron, and flew
up the stairs with never a word. When David followed more slowly, he
found her already painstakingly dusting her matchless skin with velvety
powder.
"I got a brand new box of powder, David, the very last thing I did,"
she began, as he entered the room. "When this is gone, I'll resort to
cheaper kinds. You see, father's had such a lot of experience with
girls and complexions that he just naturally expects them to be
expensive--and would very likely be confused and hurt if things were
changed. But I can imagine what a shock it would be to you right at
the start."
David assured her that any powder which added to the wonder of that
most wonderful complexion was well worth any price. But Carol shook
her head sagely.
"It's a dollar a box, my dear, and very tiny boxes at that. Now don't
talk any more for I must fix my hair and dress, and--I want to look
perfectly darling or they won't like me, and then they will not put
anything in the collections and the heathens and we will starve
together. Oh, will you buckle my slippers? Thanks. Here's half a
kiss for your kindness. Oh, David, dear, do run along and don't bother
me, for suppose some one should get here before I am all fixed, and--
Shall I wear this little gray thing? It makes me look very, very
sensible, you know, and--er--well, pretty, too. One can be pretty as
well as sensible, and I think it's a Christian duty to do it. David, I
shall never be ready. I can not be talked to, and make myself
beautiful all at once. Dear, please go and say your prayers, and ask
God to make them love me, will you? For it is very important, and--
If I act old, and dignified, they will think I am appropriate at least,
won't they? Oh, this horrible dress, I never can reach the hooks.
Will you try, David, there's my nice old boy. Oh, are you going down?
Well, I suppose one of us ought to be ready for them,--run along,--it's
lonesome without you,--but I have to powder my face, and-- Oh, that
was just the preliminary. The conclusion is always the same. Bye,
dearest." Then, solemnly, to her mirror, she said, "Isn't he the
blessedest old thing that ever was? My, I am glad Prudence got married
so long ago, or he might have wanted her instead of me. I don't
suppose the mansers could possibly object to a complexion like mine. I
can get a certificate from father to prove it is genuine, if they don't
believe it."
Then she gave her full attention to tucking up tiny, straying curls
with invisible hair pins, and was quite startled when David called
suddenly:
"Hurry up, Carol, I am waiting for you."
"Oh, bless its heart, I forgot all about it. I am coming."
Gaily she ran down the stairs, parted the curtains into the living-room
and said:
"Why are you sitting in the dark, David? Headache, or just plain
sentimental? Where are you?"
"Over here," he said, in a curious, quiet voice.
She groped her way into the center of the room and clutched his arms.
"David," she said, laughing a little nervously, "here goes the last
gasp of my dear old Methodist fervor."
"Why, Carol--" he interrupted.
"Just a minute, honey. After this I am going to be settled and solemn
and when I feel perfectly glorious I'll just say, 'Very good, thank
you,' and--"
"But, Carol--"
"Yes, dear, just a second. This is my final gasp, my last explosion,
my dying outburst. Rah, rah, rah, David. Three cheers and a tiger.
Amen! Hallelujah! Hurrah! Down with the traitor, up with the stars!
Now it's all over. I am a Presbyterian."
David's burst of laughter was echoed on every side of the room and the
lights were switched on, and with a sickening weakness Carol faced the
young people of her husband's church.
"More Presbyterians, dear, a whole houseful of them. They wanted to
surprise you, but you have turned the tables on them. This is my wife,
Mrs. Duke."
Slowly Carol rallied. She smiled the irresistible smile.
"I am so glad to meet you," she said, softly, "I know we are going to
like each other. Aren't you glad you got here in time to see me become
Presbyterian? David, why didn't you warn me that surprise parties were
still stylish? I thought they had gone out."
Carol watched very, very closely all that evening, and she could not
see one particle of difference between these mansers and the young
folks in the Methodist Church in Mount Mark, Iowa. They told funny
stories, and laughed immoderately at them. The young men gave the
latest demonstrations of vaudeville trickery, and the girls applauded
as warmly as if they had not seen the same bits performed in the
original. They asked David if they might dance in the kitchen, and
David smilingly begged them to spare his manse the disgrace, and to
dance themselves home if they couldn't be more restrained. The young
men put in an application for Mrs. Duke as teacher of the Young Men's
Bible Class, and David sternly vetoed the measure. The young ladies
asked Carol what kind of powder she used, and however she got her hair
up in that most marvelous manner.
And Carol decided it was not going to be such a burden after all, and
thought perhaps she might make a regular pillar in time.
When, as she later met the elder ones of the church, and was invariably
greeted with a smiling, "How is our little Methodist to-day," she
bitterly swallowed her grief and answered with a brightness all assumed:
"Turned Presbyterian, thank you."
But to David she said:
"I did seriously and religiously ask the Lord to let me get introduced
to the mansers without disgracing myself, and I am just a teeny bit
disappointed because He went back on me in such a crisis."
But David, wise minister and able exponent of his faith, said quickly:
"He didn't go back on you, Carol. It was the best kind of an
introduction, and He stood by you right through. They were more afraid
of you than you were of them. You might have been stiff and reserved,
and they would have been cold and self-conscious, and it would have
been ghastly for every one. But your break broke the ice right off.
You were perfectly natural."
"Hum,--yes--natural enough, I suppose. But it wasn't dignified, and
why do you suppose I have been practising dignity these last ten years?"