# The Deacon's Dilemma

Extracted from Century magazine, vol. 69 1904-05, pp. 709–714.
DEACON'S DILEMMA
BY ANNE WARNER
Author of "Susan Clegg and her Friend Mrs. Lathrop"
MISS CLEGG was getting her own favorite tea. This always consisted of itself, toast, and a slice of bacon; and she apparently took as much pleasure in the preparation of the meal as if it were not the ten thousandth of its kind which she had cooked and eaten. As she hustled and bustled here and there, her manner seemed even more sprightly than usual; and it was only occasionally, when her glance fell upon the light shining across from her friend's kitchen window opposite, that her cheerfulness knew any diminution. But there seemed to be some sad influence in the effect of the rays of Mrs. Lathrop's lamp on this particular night; and even if its effect on Susan was merely transitory, it was not the less marked each time that it occurred.
Once, just as she was carrying the tea-pot from the stove to the table, she voiced her thoughts aloud.
"I shall have to tell her to-night, so I may 's well make up my mind to it," she said firmly; and then, after drawing up a chair by making a hook out of one of her feet, she sat down and sought strength for the ordeal in a more than ordinarily hearty supper.
It was a bleak, cold night in early November, and the wind whistled drearily outside. There was a chill atmosphere everywhere, and a hint of coming winter.
"I sh'll wear my cap 'n' my cardigan jacket to go over there," the neighborly disposed Susan reflected as she carefully drank the last of the tea. "Dear, dear! but it's goin' to be a terrible shock to her, poor thing!"
Then she arose and carefully and scrupulously put the kitchen back into its customary order. Having removed the last trace of any one's ever having cooked or eaten there, she lighted a candle and sought her wraps in the icy upper regions of the house. As she passed the parlor door she shivered involuntarily.
"I expect he was cold," she murmured; "I know I was. But I couldn't see my way to sittin' in the kitchen with a caller: I never was one to do nothin' improper, 'n' I wasn't goin' to begin at my age."
Then she went up-stairs and got out the cap and jacket. It was a man's cap, with ear-tabs, and not at all designed to become the fair Susan's features; but she gave no heed to such matters and tied it on with two firm jerks.
"I jus' do hope," she ejaculated as she struggled into the cardigan, "'t she won't faint. It 'll surely come very sudden on her, too, 'n' all my talk 's to the advantage o' stayin' unmarried, 'n' the times 'n' times I've said 's we was always goin' to stay jus' so—"
The termination of the jacket-buttoning terminated the soliloquy also. Miss Clegg went down-stairs and warmed her hands at the kitchen stove, preparatory to locking up. Ten minutes later she was tapping at Mrs. Lathrop's door.
"I mustn't tell her too quick," she reminded herself as she waited to be let in; "I must lead up to it like they do after a railroad smash. Mrs. Lathrop ain't what you call over-nervous; still, she has got feelin's, 'n' in a time like this they ought to be a little steered out for. If she saw him comin' in or goin' out, that 'll help some."
Mrs. Lathrop not answering to the tap, the caller knocked again, and then tried to open the door from without, but found it to be bolted inside.
"I s'pose she's asleep, with her feet in the oven," Susan said in a spirit of rebellion and disapproval mixed, and then she battered madly for entrance.
Mrs. Lathrop was asleep, and did have her feet in the oven. She was particularly fond of finishing up her daily desultoriness in that manner. It took time slightly to disturb her slumber, more time yet to awaken her fully, and still again more time to get her to the door and open it.
"Well, Susan!" she said in a tone of cordial surprise when she saw who it was; "the idea of—"
"He wanted 's I sh'u'd see you to-night, rain or shine," said the friend, advancing into the middle of the kitchen.
"Who wanted?"
"The deacon. Didn't you see him this afternoon?"
Mrs. Lathrop furtively rubbed her eyes.
"Oh, yes, yes—I—" she began.
"Well, he wanted 's I sh'u'd come right over 'n' tell you to-night. 'N' I told him 't I would."
"Tell me wh—"
"I sh'll break it to you 's easy 's I can, Mrs. Lathrop; but there's no denyin' 's it 'll come very sharp on you at the end."
Mrs. Lathrop ceased to rub her eyes, and a vague apprehension opened them effectually instead.
"I presume, if you saw him at all, you saw how long he stayed?"
"Yes, I—"
"All of two hours, 'n' his talk was 's dumfounderin' on me 's it will be on you. I'd never thought o' any such doin's in this direction. I always looked on as a complete outsider, didn't you?"
"I don't un—"
Susan had shed her jacket and cap while talking; she now took a chair and surveyed her friend with the air of one who has pain to inflict and yet is firm.
Mrs. Lathrop looked frankly troubled.
"Well, Mrs. Lathrop, you'd ought to know me well enough, after all these years, to know 's I sh'll make this 's easy 's I can for you. Perhaps the best way 'll be to go 'way back to the beginnin' 'n' speak o' when Mrs. White died. It 'll be a proper leadin' up; fer if she hadn't died, he'd never 'a' come to see me this afternoon, 'n' I'd never 'a' come to see you to-night. Howsumsever, she did die; 'n', bein' dead, I will say fer her husband's you won't find chick or child in town to deny 's a nicer, tidier, more biddable little man never lived; 'n' 's far as my personal feelin's go, I sh'u'd think 't any woman might consider it nothin' but a joy to get a man's is always so long on the door-mat 'n' so busy with his tie 's the deacon is. He got some wore out toward the last o' her illness, fer she was give' up in September 'n' died in July; but even then I've heard Mrs. Allen say 's it was jus' pretty to see him putterin' aroun' busy 's a bee, tryin' to keep dusted up fer the funeral any minute." Susan paused to sigh.
"Seems like she didn't die but yesterday," she said reminiscently; "don't seem like it can possibly be over a year. I never can but remember them last days: they stand out afore me like a needle in a camel's eye. Nobody couldn't say 's everythin' wasn't done; they had two doctors 'n' a bill 't the drug-store, but the end come at last. She begin to sink 'n' sink, 'n' young Dr. Brown said that way o' sinkin' away was always, to his mind, one o' the most unfortunate features o' dyin'. He said he knowed lots o' people 's 'd be alive 'n' well now if they could just o' been kept from that sinkin' away. Old Dr. Carter told Mrs. Jilkins his theory was 't while the pulse beats there's life; but even he had to admit 's Mrs. White was about beat out. 'N' it was so, too; fer she died while they was talkin', 'n' the deacon just beginnin' on cleanin' the pantry shelves. He had to put all the dishes back on top o' the old papers; 'n' any one c'u'd see how hard it was for him, fer he'd counted on havin' everythin' spick 'n' span at the end.
"Well, that was a busy time! It's too bad you have to miss so much, Mrs. Lathrop; now, that day at Mrs. White's w'u'd 'a' done you a world o' good. There was a great deal o' company, 'n' the newspaper man led off, comin' to know what she died of. He explained he had to know right away, 'cause if she didn't die o' nothin' in particular, they needed the extra line for stars to show up a cod-liver oil advertisement. I said the deacon was the one to ask, 'n' we hunted high 'n' low for him until Mrs. Jilkins remembered 's he'd took them keys Mrs. White always had under her pillow 'n' gone up attic to see what trunks they fitted. Mrs. Macy had to holler him down; 'n', my! but he was snappy. He said, 'Ask Dr. Brown,' 'n' then he clumb straight back up his ladder; 'n' Dr. Brown said's she died o' the complete seclusion of her aspirational 'n' bronchoid tubes. I c'u'd see 't the newspaper man didn't know how to spell it, 'n' he told young Dr. Brown any such doin's 'd squeeze the cod-liver oil over into next week, which couldn't be considered for a minute. 'N' then he went on to say 't if folks want to die o' more 'n one line, they've got to do it Tuesday night, or at the very latest Wednesday afore ten o'clock, if it's to be got in right.
"Well, next come the funeral; 'n' I will say right here 'n' now 't the way's the widows closed in around Deacon White was enough to send any man up a ladder. There was Mrs. Macy's was actually ready 'n' waitin' to lay Mrs. White out afore she was dead. 'N' Mrs. Macy isn't one 's any one 'd rashly set about makin' love to, I shouldn't suppose. I've always understood 's there's a while 't they sit on laps; 'n' the lap ain't built 's could take pleasure in holdin' Mrs. Macy. But she was on hand, all the same, 'n' 's beamin' 's if she stood a show.
"'N' then there was Gran'ma Mullins! I was perfectly dumb did up at the doin's o' Gran'ma Mullins. I'd always looked on her 's a very deservin' mother to Hiram, 'n' one's any one c'u'd trust 's to doughnuts fer sociables; but when she come to Mrs. White's funeral with her hair frizzed, I give up. Gran'ma Mullins—at her age—at the funeral of a widower's dead wife—'n' her hair frizzed! Well, Mrs. Lathrop, if I was on my way to my own hangin' I sh'u'd still say 't to my order o' thinkin' it wasn't proper mournin'.
"Not 's there wasn't others up to the same doin's. The first night Mrs. Allen sent Polly over with one dish o' ice-cream 'n' one slice o' cake for the deacon's supper,—'n' me there 's plain 's day sittin' up alternate with Mr. Jilkins. 'N' Mrs. Allen didn't make no bones about it, neither; she said frank 'n' open 't her disapp'intment over Sam Duruy'd aged Polly right up to where only a' elderly man 'd be anywise fit fer her, 'n' she said she was teachin' her 'Silver threads among the gold' 'n' how to read aloud 't the tip-top o' your voice. I didn't discourage her none. I told her 't there wasn't many like the deacon, 'n' that come true right off; fer we heard a' awful crash, 'n' it was then 't he fell through the ceilin' into Phæbe's room, 'n' a pretty job we had sweepin' up his dust.
"The minister come in while we was sweepin'. He certainly does come to call always at very uncomfortable times; but I suppose everybody's got to have a cross, 'n' ours 's him. Anyway, he wanted to know about if it'd be agreeable to the family to have Mrs. White discoursed on 's a faithful handmaid, 'cause he didn't want to have to alter her after he'd got it all copied. He said there was the choice o' a bondwoman o' the Lord 'n' a light in Israel, too. We had to go 'n' holler the deacon a long time, 'n' finally we found him out settin' a hen. I didn't think 's he'd ought to 'a' set a hen the day o' his wife's funeral—I didn't think much o' settin' hens any time; it's set 'n' set, 'n' then half the time all you get is a weazel.
"Well, he come in at last, 'n' he wouldn't hear o' havin' his wife called a handmaid, 'cause, he said, it was him 's had always done all the work. The minister said it was astonishin' what Liza Em'ly could get through in a mornin', 'n' then he coughed; 'n' Mrs. Macy said 't Liza Em'ly was very helpful for a child o' her age, 'n' then she coughed; 'n' then the deacon went back to his hen, 'n' the minister sighed 'n' went, too."
Mrs. Lathrop herself sighed as Susan paused.
"I remember—" she said slowly.
"It was a nice funeral, though," her friend continued; "I never see a nicer one, even if Mrs. White wasn't able to look after nothin' herself. Mr. Kimball got down to business like it'd always been his business, 'n' the way he hustled things through was a lesson to them 's takes a whole afternoon to one member of a family. He took all the table-leaves 'n' laid 'em from chair to chair, so 's everybody had a seat; 'n' then, 's folks come in, he had Billy hand 'em each a fan with his advertisement on one side 'n' two rows o' readin' on the other, so 's no one got dull waitin'.
"'N' then I never shall forget what a neat job he done with the dove. You know 's well 's I do 't it's hard on the dove, 'n' always has been hard on the dove, to go to every funeral 'n' be the window advertisement between deaths. I've told you before how it was freely remarked in the square, after Mrs. Dill's burial, as the way the dove looked there was suthin' borderin' on scandalous. He'd hovered with a motto till his wings was 's dirty inside 's outside, 'n' they'd tipped his head back to look up resurrected or front to look down dejected till at Mrs. Dill's all he was fit for was to sit on the foot of her 'n' mourn, with the hat-pins 's held him steady stickin' out in all directions. Some folks as was really very sorry about Mrs. Dill 'most died when they see the dove, 'n' Mr. Kimball (he hadn't bought the business then) remarked openly 's his view was as he'd better go to two or three baptisms afore he tried another funeral. Such bein' the case, it was no more 'n natural 's we sh'u'd all feel a little worried thinkin' o' Mrs. White's bein' next to stand the dove; 'n' Mrs. Sperrit said frank an' open 't to her order o' thinkin' the deacon 'd ought to jus' forbid it. We all saw the sense in her view; but even if we did, you know 's well 's I do 't it'd be a pretty delicate matter in this c'mmunity to be the first to deliberately skip the dove."
"I think he's pret—" said Mrs. -Lathrop, musingly.
"I won't say 't I don't think so, too," said Susan; "but I never was one to turn a blind eye to the dirt on the outside o' nothin',—'s you know to your cost, Mrs. Lathrop,—'n' such bein' the case, I certainly did feel to regret 's the dove'd had such long wear 'n' tear afore it come Mrs. White's turn to be sat on. I was fond o' Mrs. White; we hadn't spoke in years, owin' to her bein' too deaf to hear, but what I see of her from the street was always pleasant, 'n' I didn't like to think 's maybe anythin' 'd be left out o' the last of her. So we let it all go, 'n' we certainly had our reward for so doin' when we see the result; for Mr. Kimball did a fine job then 'n' there, 'n' when he was dry-cleaned inside 'n' out, 'n' his beak 'n' feet painted, 'n' new beads for eyes—well, all I can say is 't I wish you'd been there to see him, that's all. He took his wings completely off, so 's to give him the air o' bein' folded up; 'n' then he stuck a gilt arrow in his heart 'n' laid him cornerways on the deacon's cross o' tiger-lilies. 'N' he didn't stop 't that, neither; he took his wings 'n' sewed 'em to each side o' a red heart left over from a euchre-party, 'n' laid the whole on Mr. Jilkins's piller o' pansies, so the deacon couldn't in conscience feel 't anythin' 's he'd paid for was wasted. I've said all along, 'n' I'll say ag'in here 'n' now, 't it was all one o' the prettiest things I ever see; 'n' I wasn't the only one's felt that way, for I've heard lots o' folks say since 's they'll want the dove just so for themselves."
Mrs. Lathrop turned a little uneasily; Susan did not appear to notice the indication of a possible impatience.
"It was all a great success," she went on calmly. "The minister's discourse was very fine; only when he prayed for consolation we all knowed he meant Liza Em'ly. All but the deacon, that is. I guess the deacon was thinkin' more o' Gran'ma Mullins 'n any one else 't first; Mrs. Jilkins told me he asked how old she was, comin' back in the carriage."
"I allers thought—" said Mrs. Lathrop.
"So did a good many people. I don' know 's that was surprisin', either; for it's a well-known fact 's they was fond o' each other forty or fifty years back. She's got a daguerre'type o' him 's is so old 't you can't be very sure whether it's him, after all. She says she ain't positive herself, 'cause she had one o' her cousin's shot himself by accident on his way to the war, 'n' the wreath o' flowers stamped on the red velvet inside was just the same in both cases. You have to go by the light 'n' tip him a good while to say fer sure whether he's got a collar on or not, 'n' you couldn't swear to his havin' on anythin' else if you was to turn him round 'n' round till doomsday. She had that picture in a box with her first hair 'n' Hiram's first tooth 'n' a nut 't she said the deacon did a hole in with his knife when they was children together one day. She showed 'em all to me one time when I was there; I didn't think much o' the nut, I must say. Say, but it seemed to make her happy, so I jus' remarked 't it was surprisin' how foolish we got 's we got old, 'n' let it go 't that. It was a while after 's he took her to Meadville to the circus; it's a well-known fact 's she was fool enough to look upon bein' took to a circus's next thing to bein' asked out 'n' out. She come up to tell me all about it afterward."
"'N' yet—" said Mrs. Lathrop.
"It just shows the vanity o' feelin' sure o' mortal man," continued Susan. "She was sure, 'n' Mrs. Allen was sure, 'n' the minister had faith; 'n' then there was Mrs. Macy, too. There was a while when it looked to me 's if swoopin' down 'n' then pinnin' flat c'u'd catch anythin', 't Mrs. Macy'd have the deacon, she was so everlastingly on hand. Why, I never walked by his house but I met her, 'n' that was far too often to ever by any chance be called a' accident. But she was too open; my own experience is 't bein' frank 'n' free is time throwed away on men. If anythin' serious is to be done with a man, it's got to be done from behind a woodpile. I had some little dealin's with men in the marryin' line once, 'n' I found 'em very shy; tamin' gophers is sleepin' in the sun beside grabbin' a man 's dead against bein' grabbed. I don't say 's it can't be done, but I will say 't it's hard in the first 'n' harder in the last, when you've got him 'n' he's got you, like the minister's got his wife."
"But Mrs. Macy ain't—" protested Mrs. Lathrop.
"No; 'n' it's her own fault, too. He told me this afternoon's the way she smiled on him right in the first days made the marrow run up 'n' down his back. He said he c'u'd 'a' stood lots o' things, but no human bein' but gets mad bein' forever smiled at. Then she knit him things. He says she knit him a pair o' snap-on slippers 's Heaven 'll surely forgive him if he ever see the like of. He said they stuck out 's far behind 's in front, 'n' all in the world 't he c'u'd do was to sit perfectly still in the middle of 'em 'n' content himself with viewin' 'em 's slippers. But he says the worst was, she cooked him things; he says he won't say what he's paid young Dr. Brown for advice regardin' things 's she's cooked him, not to speak o' that time he cut himself so bad pryin' at one o' her undercrusts. 'N', just between you 'n' me, Mrs. Lathrop, he says it's a secret 's he will carry to his grave unsealed she give him a crock o' gherkins on his birthday, with a pair o' buttonhole scissors at the bottom.
"He said he jus' felt he'd enjoy to have the revenge o' stayin' single. But he said it didn't take him long to see 's stayin' single is a privilege 's no woman's goin' to allow to a man whose wife's dead. He says the way he's been chased 's all but killin'. He says there's Mrs. Allen firin' Polly at him when he goes over there for his dinner, 'n' the minister tellin' him every Sunday 'n' prayer-meetin' how Liza Em'ly is shootin' up. He says Gran'ma Mullins is ferever referrin' to his youth, 'n' Mrs. Macy is ferever smilin'. He says he could easy keep his house alone,—he says he understands a house from moth-balls to quicklime,—but they won't let him. He says he's not only town property, but he's town talk 's well. He says Mrs. Craig stopped him in the square 'n' asked him point-blank if he'd remembered to put on his flannels.
"I tell you, Mrs. Lathrop, it's plain 't that man has suffered. If you'd 'a' seen him, your heart would 'a' softened like mine did. 'N' him such a neat little bald-headed man without any wishin' o' anybody anythin'! I give him a lot o' sympathy. I told him 't I'd knowed what it was to have a lot o' folks seem bound to marry you in the teeth o' your own will. I told him the whole community was witness to how I was set upon after father's death 'n' well-nigh drove mad. He said he wished he had my grit 'n' maybe he'd make a try to fight like I did, but he said he was beat out. He said if he isn't up 'n' the smoke pourin' out o' his chimney at six sharp, all the single women in town is lined up in front to know what's happened. He says if he was married, it goes without sayin' 's they'd both be allowed to sleep in peace. He said if he lights a candle at night, he hears o' it next day. He said if he gets a letter in a strange hand, it's all over town 's some strange woman's made his acquaintance. He says the whole world feels free to dust his hat or w'isk his coat if he stops to chat a minute. He says, such bein' the case, he's made up his mind 't he's got to get married. He says he's considered very carefully. He says he knows jus' the kind o' woman. He says he's been fretted, 'n' he don't never want to be fretted no more."
Miss Clegg paused, as if the crisis had arrived. She surveyed her friend with a meaning eye, and Mrs. Lathrop rather shrunk together and endeavored to look courageous.
"Up to now 's been all preparin' your mind. Do you feel prepared? Are you ready?"
"Yes, I—" gasped the victim.
"Left to myself, I sh'u'd 'a' waited till mornin', but he wanted you to know to-night. He knows 's I'm your dearest friend. He said if I didn't tell you right off, it might get to you some other way 'n' be a' awful blow. He said he had to go to Meadville to-morrow, so he might mention it down-town to-night, 'n' 'most any one might let it drop in on you. I see the p'int o' his reasonin', 'n' so—"
"Susan," said the friend, her feelings completely overflowing all bounds—"oh, Susan, are you really a-goin' to marry—"
Susan's expression altered triumphantly.
"Why, Mrs. Lathrop," she said, with keen enjoyment, "it ain't me 's he wants to marry; it's you!"
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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