THE MISSIONARY TEA
"Hm!" Mrs. Burke remarked to Maxwell abruptly one day during supper.
"We haven't had a missionary tea since you came, and I think it's high
time we did."
"What sort of a missionary tea do you mean?" the parson inquired.
"Well," Mrs. Burke responded, "our missionary teas combine different
attractions. We get together and look over each other's clothes;
that's the first thing; then some one reads a paper reportin' how
things is goin' in Zanzibar, or what's doin' in Timbuctoo. Then we
look over the old clothes sent in for missionaries, mend 'em up, and
get 'em ready to send off. Then we have tea and cake. I've had my
misgivin' for some time that perhaps we cared more for the tea and
cake than we did for the heathen; but of course I put such a wicked
thought aside. If you value your reputation for piety, don't you ever
speak of a missionary tea here except in a whisper."
"But I suppose the tea helps to get people together and be more
sociable?"
"Certainly. The next best thing to religion is a cup of strong tea and
a frosted cake, to make us country people friends. Both combined can't
be beat. But you ought to see the things that have been sent in this
last week for the missionary box. There's a smoking jacket, two pairs
of golf-trousers, several pairs of mismated gloves, a wonderful lot of
undarned stockings, bonnets and underclothes to burn, two jackets and
a bathin' suit. I wonder what people think missionaries are doin' most
of the time!"
On the day appointed for the missionary tea the ladies were to
assemble at Thunder Cliff at four o'clock; and when Maxwell came home,
before the advent of the first guest, he seemed somewhat depressed;
and Mrs. Burke inquired:
"Been makin' calls on your parishioners?"
"Yes, I have made a few visits."
"Now you must look more cheerful, or somebody'll suspect that you
don't always find parish calls the joy of your life."
"It's so difficult to find subjects of conversation that they are
interested in. I simply couldn't draw out Mrs. Snodgrass, for
instance."
"Well, when you've lived in the country as long as I have, you'll find
that the one unfailin' subject of interest is symptoms--mostly
dyspepsy and liver complaint. If you had known enough to have started
right with Elmira Snodgrass, she would have thawed out at once. Elmira
is always lookin' for trouble as the sparks fly upwards, or
thereabouts. She'd crawl through a barbed wire fence if she couldn't
get at it any other way. She always chews a pill on principle, and
then she calls it a dispensation of Providence, and wonders why she
was ever born to be tormented."
"In that case," laughed Maxwell, "I'd better get some medical books
and read up on symptoms. By the by, is there any particular program
for this missionary meeting, Mrs. Burke?"
"Yes, Virginia Bascom's goin' to read a paper called 'The Christian
Mother as a Missionary in her own Household.' To be sure, Ginty's no
Christian Mother, or any other kind of a mother; but she's as full of
enthusiasm as a shad is of bones. She'd bring up any child while you
wait, and not charge a cent. There goes the bell, so please excuse
me."
The guests were received by Mrs. Burke. Miss Bascom entered the parlor
with a portentous bundle of manuscript under her arm, and greeted
Donald with a radiant smile. Pulling a pansy from a bunch in her
dress, she adjusted it in his buttonhole with the happy shyness of a
young kitten chasing its tail. After the others had assembled, they
formed a circle to inspect the clothing which had been sent in. There
was a general buzz of conversation.
As they were busily going through the garments, Virginia remarked,
"Are all these things to go to the missionaries at Tien Tsin?" and she
adjusted her lorgnette to inspect the heap.
"Yes," Mrs. Burke responded wearily, "and I hope they'll get what
comfort they can out of 'em."
"You don't seem to be very appreciative, Mrs. Burke," Virginia
reproved.
"Well, I suppose I ought to be satisfied," Hepsey replied. "But it
does seem as if most people give to the Lord what they can't use for
themselves any longer--as they would to a poor relation that's worthy,
but not to be coddled by too much charity."
"I think these things are quite nice enough for the missionaries,"
Virginia retorted. "They are thankful for anything."
"Yes, I know," Mrs. Burke replied calmly. "Missionaries and their
families have no business to have any feelings that can't be satisfied
with second-hand clothes, and no end of good advice on how to spend
five cents freely but not extravagantly."
"But don't you believe in sending them useful things?" Virginia asked
loftily.
"So I do; but I'd hate that word 'useful' if I was a missionary's
wife."
"Might I inquire," asked Miss Bascom meekly, "what you would send?"
"Certainly! I'd send a twenty-five-cent scent bag, made of silk and
filled with patchouli-powder," said Hepsey, squarely.
"Well," Virginia added devoutly, "satchet bags may be well enough in
their place; but they won't feed missionaries, or clothe them, or save
souls, you know, Mrs. Burke."
"Did anybody say they would?" Mrs. Burke inquired. "I shouldn't
particularly care to see missionaries clothed in sachet bags myself;
the smell might drive the heathen to desperation. But do we always
limit our spending money to necessary clothes and food? The truth is,
we all of us spend anything we like as long as it goes on our backs,
or down our throats; but the moment it comes to supportin'
missionaries we think 'em worldly and graspin' if they show any
ambition beyond second-hand clothes."
"Do you live up to your preachin', Mrs. Burke?" a little sallow-faced
woman inquired from a dark corner of the room.
"Oh, no; it hits me just as hard as anybody else, as Martin Luther
said. But I've got a proposition to make: if you'll take these things
you brought, back with you, and wear 'em for a week just as they are,
and play you're the missionaries, I'll take back all I've said."
As, however, there was no response to this challenge, the box was
packed, and the cover nailed down.
(It is perhaps no proper part of this story to add, that its opening
on the other side of the world was attended by the welcome and
surprising fragrance of patchouli, emanating from a little silk sachet
secreted among the more workaday gifts.)
The ladies then adjourned to the front piazza, where the supper was
served.
When the dishes had been cleared away, the guests adjusted their
chairs and assumed attitudes of expectant attention while Virginia
stood up and shyly unrolled her manuscript, with a placid,
self-conscious smile on her countenance. She apologized for her youth
and inexperience, with a moving glance towards her pastor, and then
got down to business. She began with the original and striking remark
that it was the chief glory and function of woman to be a home-maker.
She continued with something to the effect that the woman who forms
the character of her children in the sanctity of the home-life rules
the destinies of the world. Then she made a fetching allusion to the
"Mother of the Gracchi," and said something about jewels. Nobody knew
who the "Gracchi" were, but they supposed that they must be some
relatives of Virginia's who lived in Boston.
She asserted that the modern methods of bringing up children were all
wrong. She drew a striking picture of the ideal home in which children
always stood modestly and reverently by their parents' chairs,
consumed with anxiety to be of some service to their elders. They were
always to be immaculately neat in their attire, and gentle in their
ways. The use of slang was quite beneath them.
These ideal children were always to spend their evenings at home in
the perusal of instructive books, and the pursuit of useful knowledge.
Then, when half-past seven arrived, they were to rise spontaneously
and promptly, and bid their parents an affectionate good-night, and
retire to their rooms, where, having said their prayers and recited
the golden text, they were to get into bed.
Portions of Virginia's essay were quite moving. Speaking of the
rewards which good mothers reap, in the virtues and graces of their
dutiful offspring, she said:
"What mother does not feel a thrill of exquisite rapture as she fondly
gazes into the depths of her baby's eyes and sees there the budding
promise of glorious womanhood. What mother does not watch the
development of her little son with wondering pride, as she notes his
manly, simple ways, his gentle reverence, his tender, modest behavior.
What mother----"
Here Virginia came to an abrupt stop, for there was a terrible racket
somewhere overhead on the piazza roof; a rope was suddenly dropped
over the edge of the eaves, and almost immediately a pair of very
immodestly bare legs were lowered into view, followed by the rest of
Nickey Burke's person, attired in his nightshirt. It was the work of a
moment for the nimble boy to slide down the rope onto the ground. But,
as he landed on his feet, finding himself in the august presence of
the missionary circle, he remarked "Gee Whitaker bee's wax!" and
prudently took to his heels, and sped around the house as if he had
been shot out of a gun.
Several segments of the circle giggled violently. The essayist, though
very red, made a brave effort to ignore the highly indecorous
interruption, and so continued with trembling tones:
"What more beautiful and touching thing is there, than the innocent,
unsullied modesty of childhood? One might almost say----"
But she never said it, for here again she was forced to pause while
another pair of immodest legs appeared over the eaves, much fatter and
shorter than the preceding pair. These belonged to Nickey's
boon-companion, the gentle Oliver Wendell Jones. The rest of O. W. J.
followed in due time; and, quite ignorant of what awaited him, he
began his wriggling descent. Most unfortunately for him, the hem of
his nightshirt caught on a large nail in the eaves of the roof; and
after a frantic, fruitless, and fearful effort to disconnect himself,
he hung suspended in the breeze for one awful moment, like a painted
cherub on a Christmas tree, while his mother, recognizing her
offspring, rose to go to his assistance.
Then there was a frantic yell, a terrible ripping sound, and Oliver
Wendell was seen to drop to the ground clad in the sleeves and the
front breadth of his shirt, while the entire back of it, from the
collar down, waved triumphantly aloft from the eaves. Oliver Wendell
Jones picked himself up, unhurt, but much frightened, and very angry:
presenting much the aspect of a punctured tire. Then suddenly
discovering the proximity of the missionary circle and missing the
rear elevation of his shirt about the same time, in the horror and
mortification of the moment, he lost his head entirely.
Notwithstanding the protests of his pursuing mother, without waiting
for his clothes, he fled, "anywhere, anywhere out of the world,"
bawling with wrath and chagrin.
The entire circumference of the missionary circle now burst into roars
of laughter. His mother quickly overtook and captured Oliver, tying
her apron around his neck as a concession to the popular prejudice
against "the altogether." The gravity of the missionary circle was so
thoroughly demoralized that it was impossible to restore order; and
Miss Bascom, in the excess of her mortification, stuffed the rest of
her manuscript, its eloquent peroration undelivered, into her bag.
[Illustration: "NICHOLAS BURKE, WHAT IN THE NAME OF CONSCIENCE DOES ALL
THIS IDIOTIC PERFORMANCE MEAN, I'D LIKE TO KNOW?"]
When the last guest had departed, Mrs. Burke proceeded to hunt up
Nickey, who was dressed and sitting on the top of the corn-crib
whittling a stick. His mother began:
"Nicholas Burke, what in the name of conscience does all this idiotic
performance mean, I'd like to know?"
Nickey closed his knife. Gazing serenely down at his mother, he
replied:
"How'd I know the blamed missionary push was goin' to meet on the
front porch, I'd like to know? Me and Oliver Wendell was just playin'
the house was on fire. We'd gone to bed in the front room, and then I
told Ollie the fire was breakin' out all around us, and the sparks was
flyin', and the stairs was burned away, and there was no way of
'scapin' but to slide down the rope over the roof. I 'aint to blame
for his nightshirt bein' caught on a nail, and bein' ripped off him.
Maybe the ladies was awful shocked; but they laughed fit to split
their sides just the same. Mr. Maxwell laughed louder than 'em all."
Hepsey retired hastily, lest her face should relax its well-assumed
severity.
Maxwell, in the meantime, felt it a part of his duty to console and
soothe the ruffled feelings of his zealous and fluent parishioner, and
to Virginia's pride his offer of escort to Willow Bluff was ample
reparation for the untoward interruption of her oratory. She
delivered into his hands, with sensitive upward glance, the receptacle
containing her manuscript, and set a brisk pace, at which she insured
the passing of the other guests along the road, making visible her
triumph over circumstance and at the same time obviating untimely
intrusion of a tete-a-tete conversation.
"You must have given a great deal of time and study to your subject,"
remarked Maxwell politely.
"It is very near to my heart," responded Virginia, in welling tones.
"Home-life is, to me, almost a religion. Do you not feel, with me,
that it is the most valuable of human qualities, Mr. Maxwell?"
"I do indeed, and one of the most difficult to reduce to a
science,"--she glanced up at him apprehensively, whereupon, lest he
seemed to have erred in fact, he added,--"as you made us realize in
your paper."
"It is so nice to have your appreciation," she gurgled. "Often I feel
it almost futile to try to influence our cold parish audiences; their
attitude is so stolid, so unimaginative. As you must have realized, in
the pulpit, they are so hard to lead into untrodden paths. Let us take
the way home by the lane," she added coyly, leading off the road down
a sheltered by-way.
The lane was rough, and the lady, tightly and lightly shod, stumbled
neatly and grasped her escort's arm for support--and retained it for
comfort.
"What horizons your sermons have spread before us--and, yet,"--she
hesitated,--"I often wonder, as my eyes wander over the congregation,
how many besides myself, really hear your message, really see what
_you_ see."
Her hand trembled on his arm, and Maxwell was a little at a loss,
though anxious not to seem unresponsive to Virginia's enthusiasm for
spiritual vision.
"I feel that my first attention has to be given to the simpler
problems, here in Durford," he replied. "But I am glad if I haven't
been dull, in the process."
"Dull? No indeed--how can you say that! To my life--you will
understand?" (she glanced up with tremulous flutter of eyelids) "--you
have brought so much helpfulness and--and warmth." She sighed
eloquently.
Maxwell was no egotist, and was always prone to see only an impersonal
significance in parish compliments. A more self-conscious subject for
confidences would have replied less openly.
"I am glad--very glad. But you must not think that the help has been
one-sided. You have seconded my efforts so energetically--indeed I
don't know what I could have accomplished without such whole-hearted
help as you and Mrs. Burke and others have given."
To the optimistic Virginia the division of the loaves and fishes of
his personal gratitude was scarcely heeded. She cherished her own
portion, and soon magnified it to a basketful--and soon, again, to a
monopoly of the entire supply. As he gave her his hand at the door of
Willow Bluff, she was in fit state to invest that common act of
friendliness with symbolic significance of a rosy future.
[Illustration]