Add files from /home/DONE/44220.zip.2021-01-25

4 files changed, 7930 insertions, 2 deletions

diff --git a/44220-0.txt b/44220-0.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..467d2d1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/44220-0.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,7929 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dominie Dean, by Ellis Parker Butler
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Dominie Dean
+       A Novel
+
+Author: Ellis Parker Butler
+
+Release Date: November 18, 2013 [EBook #44220]
+Last Updated: March 11, 2018
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOMINIE DEAN ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+DOMINIE DEAN
+
+A Novel
+
+By Ellis Parker Butler
+
+
+1917
+
+Fleming And Revell Company
+
+
+
+My Dear Mr. Dare:
+
+That day when you came to my home and suggested that I write the book to
+which I now gratefully prefix this brief dedication, I little imagined
+how real David Dean would become to me. I have just written the
+last page of his story and I feel less that he is a creature of my
+imagination than that he is someone I have known and loved all my life.
+
+It was because there are many such men as David Dean, big of heart
+and great in spirit, that you suggested the writing and helped me with
+incident and inspiration. Your hope was that the story might aid those
+who regret that such men as David Dean can be neglected and cast aside
+after lives spent in faithful service, and who are working to prevent
+such tragedies; my desire was to tell as truthfully as possible the
+story of one such man.
+
+While I have had a free hand in developing the character of David Dean,
+I most gratefully acknowledge that the suggestion of the idea, and the
+inspiration, were yours, and I hope I have not misused them.
+
+Most sincerely,
+
+Ellis Parker Butler
+
+Flushing, N. Y.
+
+
+
+
+
+I. 'THUSIA
+
+[Illustration: 'Thusia  018]
+
+DAVID DEAN caught his first glimpse of 'Thusia Fragg from the deck of
+the “Mary K” steamboat at the moment when--a fledgling minister--he
+ended his long voyage down the Ohio and up the Mississippi and was ready
+to step on Riverbank soil for the first time.
+
+From mid-river, as the steamer approached, the town had seemed but a
+fringe of buildings at the foot of densely foliaged hills with here
+and there a house showing through the green and with one or two church
+spires rising above the trees. Then the warehouse shut off the view
+while the “Mary K” made an unsensational landing, bumping against the
+projecting piles, bells jingling in her interior, paddle wheels noisily
+reversing and revolving again and the mate swearing at the top of
+his voice. As the bow of the steamer pushed beyond the warehouse, the
+sordidly ugly riverfront of the town came into view again--mud, sand,
+weather-beaten frame buildings--while on the sandy levee at the side
+of the warehouse lounged the twenty or thirty male citizens in shirt
+sleeves who had come down to see the arrival of the steamer. From the
+saloon deck they watched the steamer push her nose beyond the blank red
+wall of the warehouse. Against the rail stood all the boat's passengers
+and at David's side the friend he had made on the voyage up the river,
+a rough, tobacco-chewing itinerant preacher, uncouth enough but wise in
+his day and generation.
+
+“Well, this is your Riverbank,” he said. “Here ye are. Now, hold on!
+Don't be in a hurry. There's your reception committee, I'll warrant
+ye,--them three with their coats on. Don't get excited. Let 'em wait
+and worry a minute for fear you've not come. Keep an even mind under
+all circumstances, as your motter says--that's the idee. Let 'em wait.
+They'll think all the better of ye, brother. Keep an even mind, hey?
+You'll need one with that mastiff-jowled old elder yonder. He's going to
+be your trouble-man.”
+
+David put down the carpetbag he had taken up. Of the three men warranted
+to be his reception committee he recognized but one, Lawyer Hoskins, the
+man who while East had heard David preach and had extended to him the
+church's call. Now Hoskins recognized David and raised his hand in
+greeting. It was at this moment that 'Thusia Fragg issued from the side
+door of the warehouse, two girl companions with her, and faced toward
+the steamboat. In the general gray of the day she was like a splash of
+sunshine and her companions were hardly less vivid. 'Thusia Fragg was
+arrayed in a dress that echoed the boldest style set forth by “Godey's
+Ladies' Book” for that year of grace, 1860---a summer silk of gray and
+gold stripes, flounced and frilled and raffled and fringed--and on her
+head perched a hat that was sauciness incarnate. She was overdressed by
+any rule you chose. She was overdressed for Riverbank and overdressed
+for her father's income and for her own position, but she was a
+beautiful picture as she stood leaning on her parasol, letting her eyes
+range over the passengers grouped at the steamer's saloon deck rail.
+
+As she stood there David raised his hand in answer to Lawyer Hoskins'
+greeting and 'Thusia Fragg, smiling, raised a black-mitted hand and
+waved at him in frank flirtation. Undoubtedly she had thought David had
+meant his salutation for her. David turned from the rail, grasped his
+companion's hand in hearty farewell, and, with his carpetbag in hand,
+descended to the lower deck, and 'Thusia, preening like a peacock,
+hurried with her girl companions to the foot of the gangplank to meet
+her new conquest.
+
+This was not the first time 'Thusia had flirted with the male passengers
+of the packets. Few boats arrived without one or more young dandies
+aboard, glad to vary the monotony of a long trip and ready to take part
+in a brief flirtation with any 'Thusia and to stretch their legs ashore
+while the sweating negroes loaded and unloaded the cargo. When the stop
+was long enough there was usually time for a brisk walk to the main
+street and for hurried ice cream treats. The warning whistle of the
+steamer gave ample time for these temporary beaux to reach the boat. The
+'Thusias who could be found all up and down the river knew just the safe
+distance to carry their cavaliers in order to bring them back to the
+departing steamer in the nick of time, sometimes running the last
+hundred yards at a dog trot, the girls stopping short with little cries
+of laughter and shrill farewells, but reaching the boat landing in time
+to wave parasols or handkerchiefs.
+
+Most of these gayly garbed girls were innocent enough, although these
+steamer flirtations were evidence that they were not sufficiently
+controlled by home influences. Such actually bad girls as the town had,
+did however, indulge in these touch-and-go-flirtations often enough
+to cause the sober-minded to look askance at all the young persons who
+flirted thus. While the more innocent, like 'Thusia, made use of these
+opportunities only for their momentary flare of adventure, and while
+the young men were seldom seen again, even on the return trip, the town
+quite naturally classed all these girls as “gay”--whatever that meant.
+
+As David stepped on the gangplank to leave the steamer he saw the three
+girls, 'Thusia a little in advance, standing at the foot of the plank.
+'Thusia herself, saucy in her defiance of the eyes she knew were upon
+her, smiled up at him, her eyes beaming a greeting, her feet ready to
+fall into step with his, and her lips ready to begin a rapid chattering
+to carry the incident over the first awkward moment in case her “catch”
+ proved mutely bashful. She put out her hand, either in greeting or to
+take David's arm, but David, his head held high, let his clear gray eyes
+rest on her for an instant only and then glanced beyond her and passed
+by. The girl colored with rage or shame and drew back her hand as if
+she had unwittingly touched something hot with unprepared fingers. Her
+companions giggled.
+
+The incident was over in less time than is needed to tell of it. Henry
+Fragg, 'Thusia's widowed father and agent for the steamers, seeing the
+committee awaiting David, came from his office and walked toward them.
+David strode up the plank dock to where Mr. Hoskins was holding out a
+welcoming hand and was greeted and introduced to Sam Wiggett, Ned Long
+and Mr. Fragg.
+
+The greeting of Mr. Hoskins had a flourishing orational flavor; Sam
+Wiggett--a heavy-set man--went so far as to exceed his usual gruff grunt
+of recognition; and Ned Long, as usual, copied as closely as possible
+Sam Wiggett's words and manner. Mr. Fragg's welcome was hearty and, of
+the four, the only natural man-to-man greeting.
+
+“New dominie, hey? Well, you'll like this town when you get to know it,”
+ he assured David. “Plenty of real folks here; good town and good people.
+All right, Mack!” he broke off to shout to the mate of the “Mary K”;
+“yes, all those casks go aboard. Well, I'm glad to have met you, Mr.
+Dean--”
+
+'Thusia was still standing where David had passed her, her back toward
+the town. Usually saucy enough, she was ashamed to turn and face those
+clean gray eyes again. Her father saw her. “'Thusia!” he called.
+
+She turned and came.
+
+“'Thusia, this is our new dominie,” Fragg said, placing his hand on her
+arm. “This is my daughter, Mr. Dean. Aren't the women having some sort
+of welcome hurrah up at the manse? Why don't you go up there and take a
+hand in it, 'Thusia? Well, Mr. Dean, I'll see you many times, I hope.”
+
+'Thusia, all her sauciness gone, stood abashed, and David tried vainly
+to find a word to ease the embarrassing situation. Mr. Wiggett relieved
+it by ignoring 'Thusia utterly.
+
+“Fragg will send your baggage up,” he growled. “We'll walk. The women
+will be impatient; they've heard the boat whistle. You come with me,
+Dean, I want to talk to you.”
+
+He turned his back on 'Thusia and led David away.
+
+“The less you have to do with that girl the better,” were his first
+words. “That's for your own good. Hey, Long?”
+
+“My opinion, my opinion exactly!” echoed Mr. Long. “The less the better.
+Yes, yes!”
+
+“She's got in with a crowd of fast young fools,” agreed Mr. Hoskins.
+“Crazy after the men. Fragg ought to take her into the woodshed and use
+a good stiff shingle on her about once every so often. He lets her run
+too wild. No sense in it!”
+
+What 'Thusia needed was a mother to see that her vivacity found a more
+conventional outlet. There was nothing really wrong with 'Thusia. She
+was young and fun-loving and possessed of more spirit than most of the
+young women of the town. She was amazingly efficient. Had she been
+a slower girl the housework of her father's home would have kept her
+close, but she had the knack of speed. She sped through her housework
+like a well-oiled machine and, once through with it, she fled from the
+gloomy, motherless place to find what lively companionship she could.
+It would have been better for her reputation had she been a sloven,
+dawdling over her work and then moping away the short leisure at home.
+
+Every small town has girls like 'Thusia Fragg. You may see them arm in
+arm at the railway station as the trains pause for a few minutes, ready
+to chaffer with any “nice-looking” young fellow in a car window. You see
+them strolling past the local hotel, two or three in a group, ready to
+fall into step with any young drummer who is willing to leave his chair
+for a stroll. Some are bad girls, some are on the verge of the precipice
+of evil, and some, like 'Thusia, are merely lovers of excitement and not
+yet aware of the real dangers with which they play.
+
+'Thusia, running the streets, was in danger of becoming too daring. She
+knew the town talked about her and she laughed at its gossip. In such a
+contest the rebel usually loses; in conspiring against smugness she ends
+by falling into the ranks of immorality. In Riverbank before the Civil
+War the danger to reputation was even greater than it is now; morality
+was marked by stricter conventions.
+
+'Thusia, despite her new dress and hat, did not linger downtown after
+her meeting with David. She took the teasing of her two girl friends,
+who made a great joke of her attempt to flirt with the new dominie,
+good-naturedly, but she left them as soon as she could and walked home.
+Her face burned with shame as she thought of the surprised glance David
+had given her at the foot of the gangplank and, as she entered her
+motherless home, she jerked her hat from her head and angrily threw
+it the length of the hall. She stood a moment, opening and closing her
+fists, like an angry animal, and then, characteristically, she giggled.
+She retrieved her hat, put it on her head and studied herself in the
+hall mirror. She tried several smiles and satisfied herself that they
+were charming and then, unhooking her dress as she went, she mounted the
+stairs. When she was in her room she threw herself on her bed and wept.
+Her emotions were in a chaos; and out of this came gradually the feeling
+that all she cared for now was to have those cool gray eyes of David's
+look upon her approvingly. Everything she had done in her life seemed to
+have been deliberately planned to make them disapprove of her. Weighing
+her handicap calmly but urged by wounded pride, or desire, or love--she
+did not know which--she set about her pitiful attempt to fascinate David
+Dean.
+
+The first Sunday that David preached in Riverbank 'Thusia bedecked
+herself glowingly and sat in a pew where he could not fail to see her.
+Since the death of his wife Mr. Fragg had taken to churchgoing, sitting
+in a pew near the door so that he might slip out in case he heard the
+whistle of an arriving steamboat, but 'Thusia chose a pew close under
+the pulpit. After the service there was the usual informal hand-shaking
+reception for the new dominie and 'Thusia waited until the aisles were
+well cleared. Mr. Wiggett, Mr. Hoskins and one or two other elders and
+trustees acted as a self-appointed committee to introduce David and, as
+if intentionally, they built a barrier of their bodies to keep 'Thusia
+from him. She waited, leaning against the end of a pew, but the half
+circle of black coats did not open. As the congregation thinned and
+David moved toward the door his protectors moved with him. The sexton
+began closing the windows. The black coats herded David into the
+vestibule and out upon the broad top step and still 'Thusia leaned
+against the pew, but her eyes followed David.
+
+“Come, come! We'll have to be moving along, dominie,” growled Mr.
+Wiggett impatiently, as David stopped to receive the congratulations of
+one of the tireless-tongued old ladies. “Dinner at one, you know.”
+
+“Yes, coming!” said David cheerfully, and he gave the old lady a last
+shake of the hand. “Now!” he said, and turned.
+
+'Thusia, pushing between Mr. Wiggett and Mr. Hoskins, came with her hand
+extended and her face glowing.
+
+“I waited until they were all gone,” she said eagerly. “I wanted to tell
+you how splendid your sermon was. It was wonderful, Mr. Dean. I'm coming
+every Sunday--”
+
+David took her hand. He was glowing with the kindly greetings and
+praises that had been showered upon him, and his happiness showed in his
+eyes. He would have beamed on anyone at that moment, and he beamed on
+'Thusia. He said something pleasantly conventional and 'Thusia chattered
+on, still holding his hand, although in his general elation he was
+hardly aware of this and not at all aware that the girl was clinging to
+his hand so firmly that he could not have drawn it away had he tried.
+She knew they made a striking picture as they stood on the top step and
+she stood as dose to him as she could, so that she had to look up and
+David had to look down. The departing congregation, looking back for
+a last satisfactory glimpse of their fine new dominie, carried away a
+picture of David holding 'Thusia's hand and looking down into her face.
+
+“Come, come! Dinner's waiting!” Mr. Wiggett growled impatiently.
+
+“Well, good-by, Mr. Dean,” 'Thusia exclaimed. “My dinner is waiting,
+too, and you must not keep me forever, you know. I suppose we'll see a
+great deal of each other, anyway. Now--will you please let me have my
+hand?”
+
+She laughed and David dropped her hand. He blushed. 'Thusia ran down
+the steps and David turned to see Mary Wiggett standing in the vestibule
+door in an attitude best described as insultedly aloof.
+
+Mr. Wiggett's face was red.
+
+“_Her_ dinner waiting!” he cried. “She's got to go home and get it
+before it waits. She's a forward, street-gadding hussy!”
+
+“Father!” exclaimed his daughter.
+
+“Well, she shan't come it over the dominie,” he growled. “I'll speak to
+Fragg about it.”
+
+David walked ahead with Mary Wiggett. He was no fool. He knew well
+enough the troubles a young, unmarried minister has in store if he
+happens to be presentable, and he knew he was not ill-favored. It is
+not always--except in books--that the leading pillar of the church has a
+daughter whose last chance of matrimony is the dominie. Mary Wiggett
+had by no means reached her last chance. She was hardly eighteen--only
+a year older than 'Thusia Fragg--and forty young men of Riverbank
+would have been glad to have married her. She was a little heavier than
+'Thusia, both in mind and body, and a little taller, almost matronly in
+her development, but she was a splendid girl for all that, and more than
+good-looking in a satisfying blond way. David was so far from being her
+last chance, that she had not yet thought of David as a possible mate at
+all, but it was a fact that David was to take dinner with the Wiggetts
+and another fact that 'Thusia was not considered a proper person, and
+Mary had resented having to stand back against the church door while
+David held 'Thusia's hand. If Mary had one fault it was a certain
+feeling that a daughter of Samuel Wiggett, who was the richest man in
+the church, was the equal of any girl on earth. To be made to stand back
+for 'Thusia Fragg was altogether unbearable.
+
+Neither had Mr. Wiggett, at that time, any thought of David as a husband
+for Mary. He hoped Mary would not marry for ten years more and that
+when she did she would marry someone “with money.” The only interest the
+stubborn, rough-grained old money-lover had in David was the interest of
+an upright pillar of the church who, sharing the duty of choosing a new
+dominie, had delegated his share to Mr. Hoskins and was still fearful
+lest Mr. Hoskins had made a mistake. He was bound it should not be
+a mistake if he could help it. Having in his youth had a dozen love
+affairs and having married a stolid, cow-like woman for safety's sake,
+he believed the natural fate of a young man was to behave foolishly and
+he considered a young minister more than normally unable to take care
+of himself. If David incurred censure Mr. Wiggett would be blamed for
+letting Mr. Hoskins bring David to Riverbank.
+
+
+
+
+II. MARY WIGGETT
+
+[Illustration: Mary  030]
+
+
+NEITHER Mr. Wiggett nor Mary understood David then. I doubt if Riverbank
+ever quite understood him. When he was ten--a thin-faced, large-eyed
+child, sitting on the edge of an uncushioned pew in a small, bleak
+church, his hands clasped on his knees and his body tense as he hung on
+the words of the old dominie in the pulpit above him--he had received
+the Call. From that moment his destiny had been fixed. There had been no
+splendid Sign--no blaze of glory-light illuminating the dusky interior
+of the church, no sun ray turning his golden curls into a halo. His
+clasped hands had tightened a little; he had leaned a little further
+forward; a long breath, ending in a deep sigh, had raised his thin chest
+and David Dean had given himself to his Lord and Master to do His
+work while his life should last. Never was a life more absolutely
+consecrated.
+
+That the lad Davy should hear the Call was not strange. Religion had
+been an all-important part of his parents' lives. The rupture that
+wrenched American Presbyterianism into antagonistic parts in the year of
+David's birth had been of more vital importance than bread and meat to
+David's father.
+
+He never forgave the seceders. To David's mother the rupture had been a
+sorrow, as if she had lost a child. In this atmosphere--his father was
+an elder--David grew and his faith was fed to him from his birth; it was
+part of him, but until the Call came he had not thought of being worthy
+to preach. After the Call came he thought of nothing but making himself
+worthy.
+
+The eleven following years had been years of preparation. During the
+first of these years he spent much time with the old dominie and when
+he left school he came under the care of the presbytery of which the
+dominie was a member. It was David's father's pride that he was able
+to pay David's way through the college and seminary courses. It was his
+share in giving Davy to the Lord.
+
+At twenty-one David was a tall youth, slender, thoughtful and delicate.
+His hair was almost golden, fine and soft, with a curly forelock. He had
+never had a religious doubt. He preached his trial sermon, received his
+license and almost immediately his call to Riverbank. This was David,
+clean and sure, honest and unafraid, broad-browed and dear-eyed, his
+favorite motto: “Keep an even mind under all circumstances.” It was to
+protect this young David, clear as crystal and strong as steel, that
+the members of the First Presbyterian Church of Riverbank, during those
+first weeks, tacitly conspired, and it was against 'Thusia Fragg, the
+fluttering, eager and love-incited little butterfly, with a few of
+the golden scales already brushed from her wings, that they sought to
+protect him.
+
+To her own enormous surprise Mary Wiggett almost immediately fell in
+love with David. She was not an emotional girl, and she had long since
+decided that when the time came she would marry someone from Derlingport
+or St. Louis. She had not thought of falling in love as a necessary
+preliminary to marriage. In a vague way she had decided that a husband
+from Derlingport or St. Louis would be more desirable because he would
+take her to a place where there was more “society” and where certain of
+the richer trimmings of life were accepted as reasonable and not frowned
+on as extravagances. She had a rather definite idea that her husband
+would be someone in the pork or lumber industries, as they were then
+the best income producers. She meant to refuse all comers for about five
+years, and then begin to consider any who might apply, taking proper
+stock of them and proceeding in a sensible, orderly manner. A month
+after David came to Riverbank she would have given every man in the pork
+and lumber industries for one of David's gentle smiles. She thrilled
+with pleasure when he happened to touch her hand. She was thoroughly in
+love.
+
+'Thusia, for her part, pursued David unremittingly. She stopped running
+the streets, and tried to force her way into the activities of the
+church until she was so cruelly snubbed and cold-shouldered that she
+wept for anger and gave up the attempt. Then she lay in wait for David.
+She sailed down upon him whenever he went upon the streets, seemingly
+coming upon him unexpectedly, and falling into step with him. She
+ambuscaded him on the main street when he went to the post office for
+his mail. She was quite open in her forced attentions, and, of course,
+she was talked about. 'Thusia did not care. She had no way of courting
+him but by being bold. She fluttered her wings before his eyes whenever
+she could. She was a butterfly teasing to be caught.
+
+And David? In spite of Wiggett's warnings and his own he grew fond
+of her. You will have to imagine Riverbank as it was then to fully
+understand David and 'Thusia: the mean little business street with its
+ugly buildings and dust, or mud, ankle deep; the commercial life out
+of all proportion to the social life, so that few men thought of aught
+beside business; the fair, shady streets of homes with maples already
+overarching the streets and the houses of white or brick-red, all with
+ample lawns around them. You can see David leave the little white manse
+beside the brick church and walk the shady streets, making a pastoral
+call or going to the post office. Those pastoral calls! Serious matters
+for a young dominie in those days! The dominie was expected to come
+like a plumber, with his kit of tools, ready to set to work on a leaky
+conscience or a frost-bit soul and his visits were for little else but
+soul mending. We saved up our little leaks for him just as we saved up
+our little ills for the doctor, and we gave him his fill. We felt we
+were remiss if we did not have on hand some real or imaginary reason to
+make the dominie kneel beside a chair and pray with us. We expected our
+dominie to be a little sad when he visited us, a little gloomy about
+things in general; probably to give our otherwise cheerful homes a
+churchly gloom.
+
+It was when David came from the main street, where the men could talk
+nothing but business, or from a pastoral call, and found himself young
+and not at all gloomy at heart under the arching trees, that 'Thusia
+would waylay him. She laughed and chattered inconsequently and flirted
+with all her little might and joked about herself and everyone else and
+even about David--and who else dared joke about the dominie!--until he
+smiled in spite of himself. His flock seemed to fall naturally into two
+classes--those who felt they had a sort of proprietary interest in him
+and those who were a little afraid of him. 'Thusia was not like either.
+She was a gleam of unadulterated youth. David began to look forward to
+their chance meetings with uneasy but pleasant anticipation. She was
+like a bit of merry music brightening but not interrupting his work. He
+hardly knew how eagerly he looked forward to his meetings with 'Thusia
+until after half his congregation was talking about them.
+
+The autumn saw a great outbreak of moneymaking affairs in the church.
+There was a mortgage, of course, and church fairs and festivals and
+dinners followed one after another under David's eager guidance and it
+was impossible to keep 'Thusia from these. She fluttered about David.
+One or two of the young women of the church finally ventured to make
+use of 'Thusia, setting her to work as a waitress at one of the dinners
+where they were short-handed, but Mary Wiggett soon let them know they
+had made a mistake. With a woman's intuition she felt in 'Thusia a
+dangerous rival. Even before 'Thusia or David suspected the truth she
+saw how great an attraction 'Thusia had for the young dominie. Her own
+efforts to attract David were necessarily slower and more conventional.
+There was no question that Mary would make an excellent wife for a
+minister and Mary did not doubt her ability to win David if given time,
+but she feared some sudden flare-up of love that might blind David to
+the dignity of his position and throw him into 'Thusia's arms, even if
+it threw him out of Riverbank. David, she imagined, would be fearless in
+any loyalty.
+
+Had there been no 'Thusia Fragg Mary Wiggett would have been well
+satisfied with David's progress toward love. He liked Mary immensely
+and let her see it. He made her his lieutenant in all the money-raising
+affairs and she rightly believed his affection for her was growing, but
+she needed time. 'Thusia, on the other hand, would win in a flash or not
+at all. Mary spoke to her father; her mother she felt could give her no
+aid. Her mother was a dull woman.
+
+The stern-faced Wiggett listened to her grimly.
+
+He was not surprised to hear she loved David; he was surprised that Mary
+should come to him for aid. The actual word “love” was not mentioned; we
+avoid it in Riverbank except when speaking of others.
+
+“Father, I like David well enough to marry him, if he asked me,” was
+what she said.
+
+Further than this she told him nothing but the truth--that the
+respectable members of the church were shocked by the attention David
+was paying 'Thusia and that they were talking about it. It was a shame,
+she said, that he should lose everyone's respect in that way when the
+only trouble was that he did not understand.
+
+“You men can't see it, of course, father,” she said. “You don't
+understand what it means, as we do. And we can't speak to Mr. Dean. I
+can't speak to him.”
+
+“I'll tell that young man a thing or two!” growled Mr. Wiggett angrily.
+
+“No, not you, father,” Mary begged, and when he looked at her with
+surprise she blushed. “Huh!” he said, “why not?”
+
+“I--listen, father! I couldn't bear it if he thought I had sent you. I
+should die of shame. If you went to him, he might guess.”
+
+“Well, you want to marry him, don't you!”
+
+“If he wants me. But--yes, I do like him, father.”
+
+“Well, you won't be a starved parson's wife, anyway. You'll have money.”
+ It was equivalent to another man's hearty good wishes. “Benedict will
+talk to him,” he said, and went out to find Benedict.
+
+David had found in old Doctor Benedict a companion and friend. An
+old-style family physician, the town's medical man-of-all-work, with a
+heart as big as the world and a brain stored with book-lore and native
+philosophy, the doctor and David made a strange pair of friends and
+loved each other the better for their differences. Once every so often
+the doctor had his “periodical,” when he drank until he was stupid.
+Once already David, knowing of this weakness and seeing the “period”
+ approaching, had kept old Benedict talking philosophy until midnight
+and, when he grew restless for brandy, had walked the streets with him
+until the older man tottered for weariness and had to be fairly lifted
+into his bed. When, the next day, Benedict began the postponed spree
+David had dragged him to the manse, and had kept him there that
+night, locked in the dominie's own bedroom. Benedict took all this
+good-naturedly.
+
+He looked on his “periodicals” as something quite apart from himself. He
+did not like them, and he did not dislike them. They came, and when they
+came he was helpless. They took charge of him and he could not prevent
+them, and he refused to mourn over them or let them spoil his good
+nature. The greater part of the year he was himself, but when the
+“periodical” came he was like a helpless baby tossed by a pair of
+all-powerful arms. He could not defend himself; he did not wish to be
+carried away, but it was useless to contend. If David wanted to wrestle
+with the thing he was welcome. In the meantime David and Benedict
+recognized each in the other an intellectual equal and they became fast
+friends. Old Sam Wiggett, holding the mortgages on Benedict's house and
+on his horse, and on all that was his, did not hesitate to order him to
+talk to David.
+
+“Davy,” said the doctor quizzically as he sat in an easy-chair in
+David's study, “they tell me you are paying too much attention to 'Thusy
+Fragg.”
+
+David turned.
+
+“Arethusia Fragg?” he said. “You're mistaken, Benedict. I'm paying her
+no attention.”
+
+“It's the scandal of the church,” drawled Benedict. “Great commotion.
+Everybody whispering about it. You walk abroad with her, Davy; you laugh
+with her at oyster suppers.” He became serious. “It's being held against
+you. A dominie has to walk carefully, Davy. Small minds are staggered by
+small faults--by others' small faults.”
+
+“I meet her occasionally,” said David. “I have seen no wrong in that.”
+
+“That's not for me to say,” said Benedict. “Others do. She's a giddy
+youngster; a flyaway; a gay young flibbertygibbet. I don't judge her.
+I'm telling you what is said, Davy.”
+
+David sat with his long legs crossed, his chin resting in his hand
+and his eyes on the spatter-work motto--“Keep an even mind under all
+circumstances”--above his desk. He thought of 'Thusia Fragg and her
+attraction and of his duty to himself and to his church, considering
+everything calmly. He had felt a growing antagonism without
+understanding it. As he thought he forgot Benedict. His hand slid
+upward, and his fingers entangled themselves in his curly hair. He sat
+so for many minutes.
+
+“Thank you, Benedict,” he said at length. “I understand. I am through
+with 'Thusia!”
+
+“Mind you,” drawled Benedict, “I say nothing against the girl. I helped
+her into the world, Davy. I've helped a lot of them into the world. It
+is not for me to help them through it. When I put them in their mothers'
+arms my work is done.”
+
+“I know what you mean,” said David. “If her mother had lived 'Thusia
+might have been different. But does that concern me, Benedict?”
+
+“It does not,” grinned the old doctor. “How long have you been calling
+her 'Thusia, Davy?”
+
+“My first duty is to my church,” said David. “A minister should be above
+reproach in the eyes of his people.”
+
+“That hits the nail on the head, fair and square,” said Benedict.
+“You're right every time, Davy. How long have you been calling her
+'Thusia?”
+
+“I am not right every time, Benedict,” said David, arising and walking
+slowly up and down the floor, his hands clasped behind him, “but I am
+right in this. You are wrong when you allow yourself, even for a day, to
+fall into a state in which you cannot be of use to your sick when they
+call for you, and I would be wrong if I let anything turn my people from
+me, for they need me continually. My ministry is more important than I
+am. If my right hand offended my people I would cut it off. I have been
+careless, I have been thoughtless. I have not paused to consider how my
+harmless chance meetings with Miss Fragg might affect my work. Benedict,
+a young minister's work is hard enough--with his youthfulness as a
+handicap--without--”
+
+“Without 'Thusy,” said Benedict.
+
+“Without the added difficulties that come to an unmarried man,” David
+substituted. “The sooner I marry the better for me and for my work and
+for my people.”
+
+“And the sooner I'll be chased out of this easy-chair for good and all
+by your wife,” said Benedict, rising, “so, if that's the way you feel
+about it--and I dare say you are right--I'll try a sample of absence
+and go around and see how Mrs. Merkle's rheumatism is amusing her. Well,
+Davy, invite me to the wedding!”
+
+This was late November and the ice was running heavy in the river
+although the channel was not yet frozen over, and for some days there
+had been skating on the shore ice where the inward sweep of the shore
+left a half moon of quiet water above the levee. When Benedict left him
+David dropped into his chair. Ten minutes later his mind was made up and
+he drew on his outer coat, put on his hat and gloves and went ont. He
+walked briskly up the hill to the Wiggett home, and went in. Mary was
+not there; she had gone to the river with her skates. David followed
+her.
+
+No doubt you know how the shore ice behaves, freezing at night and
+softening again if the day is warm; cracking if the river rises or
+falls; leaving, sometimes, a strip of honeycombed ice or a strip of bare
+water along the shore until colder weather congeals it. This day was
+warm and the sun had power. Here and there, to reach the firmer ice
+across the mushy shore ice, planks had been thrown. David stood on
+the railroad track that ran along the river edge and looked for Mary
+Wiggett. There were a hundred or more skaters, widely scattered, and
+David saw Mary Wiggett and 'Thusia almost simultaneously. 'Thusia saw
+David.
+
+She was skating arm in arm with some young fellow, and as she saw David
+she pulled away from her companion. “Catch me!” she cried and darted
+away with her companion darting after her. She was the most graceful
+skater Riverbank boasted, and perhaps her first idea was merely to show
+David how well she could skate. Suddenly, however, as if she had just
+seen David, she waved her muff at him and skated toward him. The young
+fellow turned in pursuit, but almost instantly shouted a warning and dug
+the edges of his skates into the ice. 'Thusia skated on. Straight toward
+the thin, decayed ice she sped, one hand still waving her muff aloft in
+signal to David. He started down the bank almost before she reached
+the bad ice, for he saw what was going to happen. He heard the ice give
+under her skates, saw her throw up her hands, heard her scream, and he
+plunged through the mud and into the water. Before anyone could reach
+them he had drawn her to the shore and 'Thusia was clinging to him, her
+arms dose around him. She was laughing hysterically, but her teeth were
+already beginning to chatter. Her skates raised her nearer David's face
+than ordinarily, and as the skaters gathered she put up her mouth and
+kissed him. Then she fell limp in his arms.
+
+She had not fainted and David knew it was all mere pretense. He knew she
+had been in no danger, for his legs were wet only to the knees, and
+if 'Thusia was drenched from head to foot it was because she had
+deliberately thrown herself into the water. He felt it was all a trick
+and he shook her violently as he tried to push her away.
+
+“Stop it!” he cried. “Stop this nonsense!” but even as a dozen men
+crowded around them he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the
+railway embankment. Below them Mary Wiggett stood, safely back from the
+dangerous edge of the ice.
+
+“Get a rig as quickly as you can,” David commanded. “She's not hurt, but
+she'll take cold in these wet clothes. Mary Wiggett,” he called, seeing
+her in the group on the ice, “I want you to come with us.”
+
+He carried 'Thusia to the street and rested her on a handcar that stood
+beside the railway and wrapped her in his greatcoat. The crowd, of
+course, followed. David sent a boy to tell Mr. Fragg to hurry home. And
+all this while, and while they were waiting for the rig that soon came,
+'Thusia continued her pretended faint, and David knew she was shamming.
+He lifted her into the buggy. It was then she opened her eyes with a
+faint “Where am I?”
+
+“You know well enough,” David answered and turned to Mary Wiggett.
+“Come! Get in!” he ordered. “She has been pretending a faint.” David,
+who tried to keep an even mind under all circumstances, never quite
+understood the reasoning that led him to drag Mary Wiggett into the
+affair in this way. He felt vaguely that she was protection; it had
+seemed the thing he must do. He was angry with 'Thusia, so angry that he
+felt like beating her and he was afraid of himself because even while he
+hated her for the trick she had played the clasp of her arms had filled
+him with joy. He was afraid of 'Thusia.
+
+Without hesitation or demur Mary clambered into the buggy, and David
+helped 'Thusia in and drove the heavy vehicle through the muddy streets
+to 'Thusia's door. He lifted her out and carried her into the house and
+helped her up the stairs to her room, and there he left her with Mary.
+From the sitting room below he could hear Mary moving about. He heard
+her come down and put the sadirons on the stove to heat and heard her
+mixing some hot drink. When Mr. Fragg reached the house 'Thusia was
+tucked between blankets with hot irons at her feet, and Mary came down
+as David ended his explanation of the affair.
+
+“I think she'll be all right now,” Mary said. “She has stopped shivering
+and is nice and warm. We'll stop for Dr. Benedict, Mr. Fragg, just to
+make sure.”
+
+On the way home David asked Mary to marry him. She did not pretend
+unwillingness. She was surprised to be asked just then, but she was
+happy and she tucked her arm under his affectionately and David clasped
+her hand. He was happy, quite happy. They stopped to send Dr. Benedict
+to the Fraggs and then David drove Mary home. She held his hand a moment
+or two as she stood beside the buggy at her gate.
+
+“You'll come up this evening, David, won't you?” she asked. “Wait,
+David, I'll have our man drive you home and take this rig back wherever
+it came from,” she added with a pleasing air of new proprietorship; “you
+must go straight home and change into something dry. And be sure to come
+up this evening.”
+
+“I will,” said David, and she turned away. She turned back again
+immediately.
+
+“David,” she said hesitatingly; “about 'Thusia--I feel so sorry for her.
+She has no mother and I think lately she has been trying to be good. I
+feel as if--”
+
+“Yes,” said David, “I feel that too.”
+
+“Well, then, it will be all right!” said Mary happily. “And remember,
+change your clothes as soon as you get home, David Dean!”
+
+When David opened the door of the manse he stood for a minute letting
+his happiness have its own way with him. He imagined the little house as
+it would be with Mary in it as the mistress and, in addition to the glow
+of heart natural to an accepted lover, he felt he had chosen wisely. His
+wife would be a help and a refuge; she would be peace and sympathy at
+the end of every weary day.
+
+Then he climbed the stairs to change his wet garments as Mary had wisely
+ordered.
+
+
+
+
+III. THE COPPERHEAD
+
+[Illustration: Copperhead   046]
+
+
+WHEN Sumter was fired upon David Dean had been in Riverbank not quite
+a year, but he had passed through the first difficult test of the young
+minister, and Mary Wiggett's smile seemed to have driven from the minds
+of his people the opposition they had felt when it seemed he was,
+or might become, too fond of 'Thusia Fragg. Poor little 'Thusia! The
+bright, flirting, reckless butterfly of a girl, captured soul, mind and
+body by her first glimpse of David's cool gray eyes, knew--as soon
+as Mary Wiggett announced that David had proposed and had been
+accepted--that David was not for her. Mary Wiggett, inheriting much of
+hard-headed old Samuel Wiggett's common sense, was not apt to let David
+escape and David had no desire to escape from the quite satisfactory
+position of future husband of Mary Wiggett. As the months of the
+engagement lengthened he liked Mary more and more.
+
+The announcement of the dominie's engagement settled many things. It
+settled the uneasiness that is bound to exist while a young, unmarried
+minister is still free to make a choice, and it settled the fear
+that David might make a fool of himself over 'Thusia Fragg. While his
+congregation did not realize what an attraction 'Thusia had had for
+David, they had feared her general effect on him. With David engaged to
+the leading elder's daughter, and that daughter such a fine, efficient
+blond young woman as Mary was, there was peace and David was happy. He
+had no trouble in stifling the feeling for 'Thusia that he felt had come
+dangerously near being love.
+
+Until Riverbank was thrown into a rage by the news from Fort Sumter
+David, with due regard for his motto, “Keep an even mind under all
+circumstances,” had prepared to settle down into a state of gentle
+usefulness and to become the affectionate husband of the town's richest
+man's daughter. The wedding was to be when Mary decided she was quite
+ready. She was in no great haste, and in the flame of patriotism
+that swept all Iowa with the first call for troops and the subsequent
+excitement as the town and county responded and the streets were filled
+with volunteers Mary postponed setting a day. David and Mary were both
+busy during those early war days. Almost too soon for belief lists of
+dead and wounded came back to Riverbank, followed by the pale cripples
+and convalescents. Loyal entertainments and “sanitary fairs” kept every
+young woman busy, and there is no doubt that David did more to aid the
+cause by staying at home than by going to the front. He was willing
+enough to go, but all Iowa was afire and there were more volunteers than
+could be accepted. No one expected the war to last over ninety days.
+More said sixty days.
+
+Little 'Thusia Fragg, forgiven by Mary and become her protégée, was
+taken into the councils of the women of David's church in all the loyal
+charitable efforts. She was still the butterfly 'Thusia; she still
+danced and appeared in gay raiment and giggled and chattered; but she
+was a forgiven 'Thusia and did her best to be “good.” Like all the young
+women of the town she was intensely loyal to the North, but her loyalty
+was more like the fiery spirit of the Southern women than the calmer
+Northern loyalty of her friends.
+
+As the lists of dead grew and the war, at the end of ninety days,
+seemed hardly begun, loyalty and hatred and bitterness became almost
+synonymous. Riverbank, on the Mississippi, held not a few families of
+Southern sympathizers, and the position of any who ventured to doubt
+the right of the North to coerce the South became most unpleasant. Wise
+“Copperheads” kept low and said nothing, but they were generally
+known from their antebellum utterances, and they were looked upon with
+distrust and hatred. The title “Copperhead” was the worst one man
+could give another in those days. As the war lengthened one or two hot
+outspoken Democrats were ridden out of the town on rails and the rest,
+for the most part, found their sympathies change naturally into tacit
+agreement with those of their neighbors. It was early in the second year
+of the war that old Merlin Hinch came to Riverbank County. It was a
+time when public feeling against Copperheads was reaching the point of
+exasperation.
+
+Merlin Hinch, with his few earthly goods and his wife and daughter,
+crossed the Mississippi on the ferry in a weather-beaten prairie
+schooner a few weeks before plowing time. He came from the East but he
+volunteered nothing about his past. He was a misshapen, pain-racked man,
+hard-handed and close-mouthed. He rested one day in Riverbank, got from
+some real estate man information about the farms in the back townships
+of the county, and drove on. There were plenty of farms to be
+had--rented on shares or bought with a mortgage--and he passed on his
+way, a silent, forbidding old man.
+
+In the days that followed he sometimes drove into town to make such
+purchases as necessity required. Sometimes his wife--a faded, work-worn
+woman--came with him, and sometimes his daughter, but more often he came
+alone.
+
+Old Hinch--“Copperhead Hinch,” he came to be called--was not beautiful.
+He seldom wore a hat, coming to town with his iron-gray hair matted
+on his head and his iron-gray beard tangled and tobacco-stained. Some
+long-past accident had left him with a scar above the left eyebrow,
+lowering it, and his eyebrows were like long, down-curving gray
+bristles, so that his left eye looked out through a bristly covert,
+giving him a leering scowl. The same accident had wrenched his left
+shoulder so that his left arm seemed to drag behind him and he walked
+bent forward with an ugly sidewise gait. At times he rested his left
+hand on his hip. He looked like a hard character, but, as David came
+to know, he was neither hard nor soft but a man like other men. Sun and
+rain and hard weather seemed to have turned his flesh to leather.
+
+In those days the post office was in the Wiggett Building, some sixty
+feet off the main street, and it was there those who liked to talk of
+the war met, for on a bulletin board just outside the door the lists of
+dead and wounded were posted as they arrived, and there head-lined pages
+of the newspapers were pasted. To the post office old Hinch came on
+each trip to town, stopping there last before driving back to Griggs
+Township. Old Hinch issued from the post office one afternoon just as
+the postmaster was pasting the news of a Union victory on the board, and
+some jubilant reader, dancing and waving his cap, grasped old Hinch and
+shouted the news in his ear. The old man uttered an oath and with his
+elbow knocked his tormentor aside. He shouldered his way roughly through
+the crowd and clambered into his wagon.
+
+“Yeh! you Copperhead!” the old man's tormentor shouted after him.
+
+The crowd turned and saw the old man and jeered at him. Hinch muttered
+and mumbled as he arranged the scrap of old blanket on his wagon seat.
+He gathered up his reins and, without looking back, drove down the
+street, around the corner into the main street and out of the town.
+After that old Hinch was “that Copperhead from Griggs Township.” Silent
+and surly always, he was left more completely alone than ever. When he
+came to town the storekeepers paid him scant courtesy; the manner in
+which they received him indicated that they did not want his trade, and
+would be better satisfied if he stayed away. The children on the street
+sometimes shouted at him.
+
+Old Sam Wiggett, Mary's father, was by that time known as the most
+bitter hater of the South in Riverbank. Later there were some who said
+he assumed the greater part of his virulent fanaticism to cover his
+speculations in the Union paper currency and his tax sale purchases of
+the property of dead or impoverished Union soldiers, but this was not
+so. Heavy-bodied and heavy-jowled, he was also heavy-minded. That which
+he was against he hated with all the bitterness his soul could command,
+and he was sincere in his desire that every captured Confederate be
+hanged. He considered Lincoln a soft-hearted namby-pamby and would
+have had every Confederate home burned to the ground and the women
+and children driven into Mexico. In business he had the same harsh but
+honest single-mindedness. Money was something to get and any honest way
+of getting it was right. There were but two or three men in Riverbank
+County who would bid in the property of the unfortunate soldiers at tax
+sale, but Sam Wiggett had no scruples. The South, and not he, killed and
+ruined the soldiers, and the county, not he, forced the property to
+tax sale. He bought with depreciated currency that he had bought at a
+discount. That was business.
+
+It was not unnatural that Mary Wiggett should have absorbed some share
+of this ultraloyalism from her father. The women of Riverbank were not,
+as a rule, bitterly angry. They were staunch and true to their cause;
+they worked eagerly with their hands, scraping lint, making “housewives”
+ and doing what they could for their soldiers; they were cheered by
+victories and depressed by defeats, and they wept over their slain
+and wounded, but their attitude was one of pity and love for their
+own rather than of hard hatred against the South. With Mary Wiggett
+patriotism was more militant. Could she have arranged it the lint she
+scraped would never have been used to dress the wounds of a captured
+Confederate soldier boy. 'Thusia, even more intense, hated the South as
+a personal enemy.
+
+David felt this without, at first, taking much notice of it. He was
+happy in his engagement and he liked Mary better each day. There was a
+wholesome, full-blooded womanliness in all she did and a frankness in
+her affection that satisfied him. The first shock to his evenly balanced
+mind came one day when he was walking through the main street with her.
+
+The young dominie was swinging down the street at her side, his head
+high and his clear gray eyes looking straight ahead, when something
+whizzed past his face. They were near the corner of a street. Along the
+edge of the walk a half dozen farm wagons stood and in the nearest sat
+Mrs. Hinch, her sunbonnet thrown back and her Paisley shawl--her finest
+possession--over her shoulders. Old Hinch was clambering into the wagon
+and had his best foot on the hub of a wheel. The missile that whizzed
+past David's face was an egg. It struck old Hinch on the temple and
+broke, scattering the yolk upon the waist of Mrs. Hinch's calico dress
+and upon her shawl and her face. Some boy had grasped an egg from a box
+before a grocer's window and had thrown it. The lad darted around the
+corner and old Hinch turned, grasping his whip and scowling through his
+bristly eyebrows. The corner loafers laughed.
+
+What David did was not much. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket
+and gave it to the faded woman in the wagon, that she might remove the
+stain of egg. She wiped her face and began removing the egg from her
+garments and David and Mary moved on.
+
+“Why did you do that!” Mary asked. “Don't you know them! They're
+Copperheads.”
+
+“She was badly spattered. She seemed at a loss what to do.”
+
+“Didn't you _know_ they were Copperheads!”
+
+“I did not know. That would have made no difference. She was
+distressed.”
+
+“Well, please, David, do not help any more distressed Copperheads when I
+am with you,” Mary said. “Everyone in front of the store saw you. Oh! I
+wouldn't raise my little finger to help a Copperhead if she was dying! I
+hate them! They ought to be egged out of town, all of them.”
+
+Some two weeks later old Hinch drove up to the little manse and knocked
+on David's door. He had the handkerchief, washed, ironed and folded in a
+bit of white paper, and a dozen fresh-laid eggs in a small basket.
+
+“Ma sent me 'round with these,” old Hinch said. “Sort of a 'thank you.'
+She 'minded me particular not to throw the eggs at you.”
+
+There was almost a twinkle in his eyes as he repeated his wife's little
+joke. He would not enter the manse but sidled himself back to his wagon
+and drove away.
+
+It was from 'Thusia Fragg that David had the next word of old Hinch.
+Even in those days David had acquired a great taste for a certain
+sugared bun made by Keller, the baker. Long years after the buns were
+still made by Riverbank bakers and known as “Keller buns” and the last
+sight many had of David was as an old man with a paper bag in his hand,
+trudging up the hill to his home for a little feast on “Keller buns.” He
+used to stop and offer his favorite pastry to little children. Sometimes
+the paper bag was quite empty by the time he reached home.
+
+It was no great disgrace, in those days, to carry parcels, for many of
+the Riverbankers had come from St. Louis or Cincinnati, where the best
+housewives went to market with basket on arm, but David would have
+thought nothing of his paper parcel of buns in any event. The buns were
+at the baker's and he liked them and wanted some at home, so he went to
+the baker's and bought them and carried them home. He was coming out of
+Keller's doorway when 'Thusia, as gayly dressed as ever, hurrying by,
+saw him and stopped. She was frightened and agitated and she grasped
+David's arm.
+
+“Oh, Mr. Dean!” she cried. “Can't you do something! They're beating an
+old man! There!” she almost wept, pointing down the street toward the
+post office. David stood a moment, tense and breathing deeply.
+
+“Who is it!” he asked.
+
+“That Copperhead farmer,” said 'Thusia.
+
+David forgot the motto over his desk in his study. He saw the small mob
+massed in front of the post office and men running toward it from across
+the street, and he too ran. He saw the crowd sway back and forth and
+a fist raised in the air, and then he was on the edge of the group,
+pushing his way into it.
+
+“Stop this! Stop this!” he cried.
+
+His voice had the ring of authority and those who turned knew him to be
+the dominie. They had done old Hinch no great harm. A few blows had been
+struck, but the old man had received them with his arm thrown over his
+head. He was tough and a few blows could not harm him. He carried a
+stout hickory club, and as the crowd hesitated old Hinch sidled his way
+to the edge of the walk and scrambled into his wagon.
+
+Someone laughed. Old Hinch did not drive away.
+
+“My letter,” he growled, and David stooped and picked up the letter that
+lay on the walk and handed it to him. Then Hinch struck his horses a
+blow with the club and the wagon bumped over the loose stones and away.
+The letter had been trampled upon by dusty feet and David's coat had
+received a smear of dust from the wagon wheel. He brushed his hands
+together, and someone began knocking the dust from the skirt of his
+coat. It eased the tension. Someone explained.
+
+“We told the Copperhead to take off his hat to the flag,” they told
+David, “and he damned the war. Somebody hit him.”
+
+“He is an old man,” said David. “You can show your patriotism better
+than by striking an old man.”
+
+It was not a diplomatic thing to say and it was still less diplomatic
+for David to preach, the next Sunday, on the prodigal son. Many shook
+their heads over the sermon, saying David went too far in asking them
+to prepare their hearts for the day when the war would be ended and
+it would be necessary to take the South back into the brotherhood of
+States, and to look upon the Confederates as returning prodigals. Old
+Wiggett was furiously angry. Forty years were to elapse before some of
+David's hearers were ready to forgive the South, and many went to
+their graves unforgiving. The feeling after the sermon was that David
+sympathized entirely too strongly with the South. Those who heard his
+following sermons knew David was still staunchly loyal, but through the
+byways of the town the word passed that Dominie Dean was “about as bad
+as any Copperhead in the county.”
+
+
+
+
+IV. ROSE HINCH
+
+[Illustration: Rose   058]
+
+IT was during that week that Benedict, the medical man-of-all-work of
+the county, David's closest friend, carried David out to Griggs Township
+to see old Hinch. Doctor Benedict had his faults, medical and otherwise.
+Calomel in tooth-destroying quantities was one and his periodical sprees
+were all the rest. His list of professional calls and undemanded bills
+qualified him for a saintship, for his heart was right and it hurt him
+to take money from a poor man even when it was willingly proffered.
+
+“Davy,” he said, putting his beaver hat on David's desk and sinking into
+David's easy-chair with a yawn (people would not let him have a good
+night's rest once a week), “one of my patients gave you a dozen eggs.
+Remember her?”
+
+“Yes. The Copperhead's wife. She's not sick, I hope.”
+
+“Malaria, backache, pain in the joints, headache, touch of sciatica. No,
+she's well. She don't complain. It's her husband, David. He's in a bad
+way.”
+
+“What ails him!” David asked.
+
+“He's blaspheming his God and Maker, Davy,” said Benedict. “He's
+blaspheming himself into his grave. He has hardened his heart and he
+curses the God that made him. Davy, he's dying of a breaking heart. He
+is breaking his heart against the pillars of Heaven.”
+
+David turned in his chair.
+
+“And you came for me? You were right, Benedict. You want me to go to
+him!”
+
+“I want to take you to him,” said Benedict. “Get on your duds, Davy; the
+horse is outside.” It is a long drive to Griggs Township and Benedict
+had ample time to tell all he knew of Hinch. For five days the man had
+refused to eat. He sat in his chair and cursed his God for bringing the
+war upon the country; sat in his chair with a letter crumpled in his
+hand, with his eyes glassy hard and his face in a hideous scowl.
+
+“I heard from the wife of what you did the other day when those loafers
+would have beaten the old man. He hates all mankind, Davy, but if there
+is one of the kind can soften his heart you are the one. Hates?” The
+doctor shook his head. “No, he thinks he hates man and God. It is
+grief, Davy. He's killing himself with grief.” David was silent. He knew
+Benedict would continue.
+
+“The day you mixed up in his affair he got a letter at the post office.
+It's the letter he keeps crushed in his hand.”
+
+“I remember. I picked it up and gave it to him.”
+
+“He read it before he came out of the post office, I dare say,” said the
+doctor. He flicked his whip over the haunches of his horse. “You don't
+know why he came West? He was burned out where he came from. He spent
+his life and his wife's life, too, building up a farm and Fate made it a
+battlefield. Raiders took his stock first, then one army, and after that
+the other, made his farm a camp and between them they made it a desert,
+burning his buildings. He had a boy of fourteen, and they were trying to
+keep alive in the cellar hole where the house had been. A chance bullet
+killed the lad. I think the boy was running to the well for a pail of
+water. It has made, the old man bitter, Davy. It has made him hate the
+war.”
+
+“It might well make him hate the war,” said David.
+
+“There was another son,” said Benedict. “I take it he was a fine lad,
+from what the mother tells me. He was nineteen. The letter that came the
+other day said the lad had been killed in battle. Yes, the old man hates
+the war. He does not love the war, Davy.”
+
+“He may well hate it,” said David.
+
+They found old Hinch as Benedict had left him, bent down in his chair
+with his eyes set in a hard glare. He was very weak--much weaker than
+when Dr. Benedict had left him--but his lips still moved in ceaseless
+blasphemy. The wife let David and the doctor in. No doubt she felt the
+loss of her son as deeply as old Hinch himself felt it, but Fate had
+taken vigor out of her soul before this blow fell. Her nervous hands
+clasped and unclasped, and she looked at Benedict with the pitiful
+pleading of a dumb animal. When the two men went up to Hinch she seated
+herself at the far side of the room, still clasping and unclasping her
+hands. The tragedy that had occurred seemed lost in the tragedy that
+impended.
+
+David fell on his knees beside the old man's chair and, with his hand
+on old Hinch's arm and his forehead on the chair arm, prayed. He prayed
+aloud and as he prayed he tightened his grasp on the old man's arm. It
+was more than a prayer; it was a stream of comfort flowing straight
+from his heart. He prayed long. The wife ceased her nervous clasping and
+unclasping of her hands and knelt beside her own chair. Benedict stole
+to the far corner of the room and dropped noiselessly into a seat. An
+hour passed and still David prayed.
+
+The room was poverty-stricken in the extreme. There was no carpet on the
+floor and no drapery at the windows. The table was of pine, and a squat
+lamp of glass stood on it, the lamp chimney broken and patched with
+scorched paper. The afternoon waned and old Hinch ceased his muttering,
+but David prayed on. He was fighting for the man's soul and life. Dusk
+fell, and with a sudden great sob old Hinch buried his face between his
+knees. Then David clasped his hand.
+
+The wife silently lighted the lamp and went to the kitchen, and, as if
+the light had been a signal, the door opened and Rose Hinch came in. She
+stood a moment in the doorway, her sunbonnet pushed back, taking in the
+scene, and then she came and stood beside her father and put her hand on
+his head. Then David looked up and saw her.
+
+She had been all day in the field, doing the work her father had left
+undone, and her shoes were covered with loam and her hands burned to a
+brown-red. Her garments were rough and patched, but her face, protected
+by the sunbonnet, was untouched by tan. It was a face like that of a
+madonna, sweet and calm. Her hair, parted in the middle, had been drawn
+back smoothly, but now it fell rather loosely over her forehead, and was
+brown, as were her eyes. She let her hand rest a moment on her father's
+head, and then passed on into the kitchen.
+
+Benedict left immediately after the supper, but David remained for the
+night. Old Hinch drank a bowl of broth and permitted himself to be led
+to bed. He was very weak but he blasphemed no more; his mood was one of
+saner sorrow. The wife sat with him, and David, seeing that Rose--after
+a day of man's work in the field--must care for the scanty stock,
+insisted on aiding her. When Benedict arrived the next morning old Hinch
+was much better physically and quite himself mentally, and David drove
+back to town with the doctor.
+
+Three times in the next two weeks David drove out to Griggs Township
+with Benedict. Things had returned to their miserable normal state when
+he made his last visit, but when David arrived Samuel Wiggett was there.
+No doubt the farm was to be put up at tax sale and Wiggett had come out
+to see whether it was worth bidding in. It would have pleased him to be
+able to put old Hinch, a Copperhead, off the place.
+
+Wiggett, like many sober and respectable men, had little respect for men
+like Benedict, and he was never any too well pleased to see David in the
+doctor's company. To see David and Benedict together at the home of the
+Copperhead was bad indeed, and to see the evident friendship existing
+between David and the Copperhead and the Copperhead's wife and daughter
+was worse. Wiggett climbed into his buggy after a gruff greeting and
+drove away.
+
+For several days after David's meeting with Wiggett at the farm the
+young dominie did not see Mary Wiggett. War times were busy times for
+the ministers as well as for the men at the front, and David's pastoral
+duties seemed to crowd upon him. Three of the “boys,” sent home to die,
+lay in their beds and longed for David's visits. He tried to grasp a few
+minutes to see Mary, but it was often long past midnight when he fell
+exhausted on his bed.
+
+Gossip, once started in a small town, does not travel--it leaps, growing
+with each leap. It builds itself up like conglomerate, that mass of
+pebbles of every sort, shells and mud. In no two heads did the stories
+that were told about David during those days agree. The tales were a
+conglomerate of unpleasant lies in which disloyalty, infatuation for
+the Copperhead's daughter, hypocrisy, unhallowed love and much else were
+illogically combined. Of all this David suspected nothing. What Mary
+Wiggett heard can only be guessed, but it set her burning with jealousy
+of Rose Hinch and weeping with hurt pride.
+
+It was not a week after his last visit to the Hinches that Sam Wiggett's
+man-of-all-work stopped at the manse, leaving a small parcel and a note
+for David. The parcel held the cheap little ring David had given Mary as
+a token of their engagement and the letter broke their engagement.
+
+David was horrified. Again and again he read the letter, seeking to find
+in it some clew to Mary's act, but in vain. He hastened to her home,
+but she would not see him. He wrote, and she replied. It was a calmly
+sensible letter, but it left him more bewildered than ever. She begged
+him not to be persistent, and said her mind was made up and she could
+never marry him. She said he could see that if he forced his attentions
+or even insisted on making a quarrel of what was not one it would be
+harder for both, since she was a member of his church and, if he became
+annoying, one of them must leave.
+
+Before giving up all hope David persuaded Dr. Benedict to see Mary. The
+good doctor returned somewhat dazed.
+
+“She sat on me, Davy; she sat on me hard,” he said. “My general
+impression is that she meant to convey the idea that what Samuel
+Wiggett's daughter chooses to do is none of a drunken doctor's infernal
+business.”
+
+“But would she give you no reason?” asked David.
+
+“Now as to that,” said Benedict, “she implied quite plainly that if you
+don't know the reason it is none of your business either. She knows the
+reason and that's enough for the three of us.” David wrote again, and
+finally Mary consented to see him and set the day and hour; but, as if
+Fate meant to make everything as bad as possible for David, Benedict
+came that very afternoon to carry him out to Griggs Township to minister
+to Mrs. Hinch, who had broken down and was near her end. It was not
+strange that she should ask for David, but the town found in the two or
+three visits he made the dying woman additional cause for umbrage,
+and Mary, receiving David's message telling why he could not keep his
+appointment, refused to make another.
+
+Through all this David went his way, head high and with an even mind.
+He felt the change in his people toward him and he felt the changed
+attitude of the town in general, but until the news reached him through
+little 'Thusia Fragg he did not know there was talk in some of the
+barrooms of riding him out of town on a rail.
+
+He was sitting in his study trying to work on his sermon for the next
+Sunday morning, but thinking as much of Mary as of his sermon, when
+'Thusia came to the door of the manse. Mary Ann, the old housekeeper,
+admitted her, leaving her sitting in the shaded parlor while she went to
+call David. He came immediately, raising one of the window shades that
+he might better see the face of his visitor, and when he saw it was
+'Thusia he held out his hand. It was the first time 'Thusia had been
+inside the manse.
+
+“Well, 'Thusia!” he queried.
+
+She was greatly agitated. As she talked she began to cry, wringing her
+hands as she poured out what she had heard. David was in danger; in
+danger of disgrace and perhaps of bodily harm or even worse. From her
+father she had heard of the threats; Mr. Fragg had heard the word passed
+among the loafers who hung out among the saloons on the street facing
+the river. David was to be ridden out of town on a rail; perhaps tarred
+and feathered before the ride.
+
+David listened quietly. When 'Thusia had ended, he sat looking out of
+the window, thinking.
+
+He knew the men of the town were irritated. For a time all the news from
+the Union armies had been news of reverses. The war had lasted long and
+bad news increased the irritation. Riots and lawlessness always occur
+in the face of adverse reports; news of a defeat embitters the
+non-combatants and brings their hatred to the surface. At such a time
+the innocent, if suspected, suffered along with the known enemy.
+
+“And they think I am a Copperhead!” said David at length.
+
+“Because you are friendly with Mr. Hinch,” 'Thusia repeated. “They don't
+know you as I do. It is because you are kind to the Hinches when no one
+else is. And they say--” she said, her voice falling and her fingers
+twisting the fringe of her jacket--“they say you are in love with--with
+the daughter.”
+
+“It is all because they do not understand,” said David, rising. “I can
+tell them. When I explain they will understand.”
+
+He had, as yet, no definite plan. A letter to the editor of the daily
+newspaper occurred to him; he might also make a plain statement in the
+pulpit before his next Sunday sermon, setting himself right with his
+congregation. In the meanwhile he must show himself on the street; by
+word of mouth he could explain what the townspeople did not know. He
+blamed himself for not having explained before. He stood at the window,
+looking out, and saw Dr. Benedict drive up. The doctor came toward the
+house.
+
+David met him at the door.
+
+“Davy,” the doctor said, clasping his hand, “she is dead,” and David
+knew; he meant Mrs. Hinch.
+
+“And Hinch?”
+
+“He's taking it hard, Davy. He is in town. He is in that mood of sullen
+hate again. He will need you--you are the only man that can soften him,
+Davy. It is hard--we left the girl alone with her dead mother. Some
+woman is needed there.” 'Thusia had come to the parlor door.
+
+“Will I do! Can I go!” she asked.
+
+“Yes, and bless you for it!” the doctor exclaimed. “Get in my buggy.
+You'll come, David!”
+
+“Of course! But Hinch--he came to town! Why?”
+
+“He had to get the coffin, Davy.”
+
+David hurried into his coat.
+
+“We must find him at once and get him out of town,” he said. “They're
+threatening to tar and feather him if he shows his face in town again.
+We may stop them if we are in time; please God we may stop them!”
+
+They found old Hinch's wagon tied opposite the post office. They knew it
+by the coarse pine coffin that lay in the wagon bed. A crowd--a dozen or
+more men--stood before the bulletin board watching the postmaster post
+a new bulletin and, as David leaped from the buggy, the men cheered, for
+the tide had turned and the news was news of victory. As they cheered,
+old Hinch came out of the post office. He had in his right hand the
+hickory club he always carried and in the left a letter, doubled over
+and crushed in his gnarled fingers. He leaned his weight on the club.
+All the strength seemed gone out of his bent body. Someone saw him and
+shouted “Here's the Copperhead!” and before David could reach his side
+the crowd had gathered around old Hinch.
+
+The old man stood in the doorway, under the flag that hung limply from
+its pole. His fingers twitched as they grasped the letter in his hand.
+He glared through his long eyebrows like an angry animal.
+
+“Kill the Copperhead!” someone shouted and an arm shot out to grasp the
+old man.
+
+“Stop!” David cried. He struggled to fight his way to Hinch, but the
+old man, maddened out of all reason, raised his club above his head.
+It caught in the edge of the flag above his head and he uttered a
+curse--not at the flag, not at his tormentors, but at war and all war
+had done to him. The knotted end of the club caught the margin of the
+flag and tore the weather-rotten fabric.
+
+Those in front had stepped back before the menace of the raised club,
+but one man stood his ground. He held a pistol in his hand and as the
+flag parted he leveled the weapon at the old man's head and calmly and
+in cold blood pulled the trigger.
+
+“That's how we treat a Copperhead!” he cried, and the old man, a bullet
+hole in his forehead, fell forward at his feet.
+
+You will not find a word regarding the murder in the _Riverbank Eagle_
+of that period. They hustled the murderer out of town until it was safe
+for him to return; indeed, he was never in any danger. The matter was
+hushed up; but few knew old Hinch. It was an “incident of the war.” But
+David, breaking through the crowd one moment too late, dropped to his
+knees beside the old man's dead body and raised his head while Benedict
+made the hurried examination. Some members of the crowd stole away, but
+other men came running, from all directions and, standing beside the
+dead man, David told them why old Hinch had damned the war and why he
+hated it--not because he was a Copperhead but because one son and
+then another had been taken from life by it--one son killed by a stray
+Confederate bullet and the other shot while serving in the Union army.
+He made no plea for himself; it was enough that he told them that old
+Hinch was not a Copperhead but a grief-maddened father. As he ended
+Benedict handed him the letter that had slipped from the old man's
+hand as he fell. It bore the army frank and was from the colonel of a
+Kentucky regiment. There was only a few lines, but they told that old
+Hinch's oldest son, the last of his three boys, had fallen bravely in
+battle. It was with this new grief in his mind that the old man had
+stepped out to confront his tormentors.
+
+David read the letter, his clear voice carrying beyond the edges of the
+crowd, and when he finished he said, “We will pray for one who died in
+anger,” and on the step of the post office and face to face with those
+who but a few minutes before would have driven him from the town in
+disgrace, he prayed the prayer that made him the best-loved man in
+Riverbank.
+
+Some of our old men still talk of that prayer and liken it to the
+address Lincoln made at Gettysburg. It was never written down and we can
+never know David's words, but those who heard knew they were listening
+to a real man speaking to a real God, and they never doubted David
+again.
+
+As David raised his head at the close he saw Mary Wiggett and her father
+in their carriage at the far edge of the crowd, that filled the street.
+Mary half arose and turned her face toward David, but old Wiggett drove
+on, and, while hands now willing raised the body of old Hinch, David
+crossed the street to where 'Thusia Fragg was waiting for him.
+
+When old Sam Wiggett drove away from in front of the post office, little
+imagining David had just counteracted all the baseless gossip that had
+threatened him, Mary placed her hand on his arm and urged him to turn
+back, but cold common sense urged him to drive on. He did not want to be
+known as having seen any of the tragedy, for he did not relish having to
+enter a witness chair. Had he turned back as Mary wished David's whole
+life might have been different, and certainly his end would have been.
+
+Once safely home Mary did not hesitate to write to David. Whatever else
+she may have been, and however old Sam's wealth had affected her mode
+of thought, Mary was sincere, and she now wrote David she was sorry and
+asked him to come to her. It was too late. With 'Thusia David walked
+up the hill. At the gate of the manse they paused. They had spoken of
+nothing but the tragedy.
+
+“Rose Hinch will be all alone now,” 'Thusia said.
+
+“Yes,” David said.
+
+'Thusia looked down.
+
+“Do you--will she get work,” she asked, “or is she going to marry
+someone.”
+
+“I know she is not going to marry,” David said promptly. “She knows no
+one--no young men.”
+
+“Except you,” 'Thusia suggested, looking up. As she met David's dear
+eyes her face reddened as it had on that first day at the wharf. The
+hand that lay on the gate trembled visibly; she withdrew it and hid it
+at her side.
+
+“I like Rose, but I am not a candidate for her hand, if that is what you
+mean,” said David.
+
+'Thusia suddenly felt infinitely silly and childish.
+
+“I mean--I don't mean--” she stammered. “I must not keep you standing
+here. Good-by.”
+
+“Good-by,” David said, and turned away.
+
+He took a dozen steps up the path toward the manse. He stopped short and
+turned.
+
+“'Thusia!” he called.
+
+“Yes?” she replied, and turned back.
+
+David walked to the gate and leaned upon it.
+
+“What is it,” 'Thusia asked.
+
+“You asked about Rose Hinch. I think we should try to do something for
+her--”
+
+'Thusia's eyes were on David's hands. Now David's hands and not
+'Thusia's were trembling. She watched them as if fascinated. She looked
+up and the light in his eyes thrilled her.
+
+“'Thusia, I know now!” David said. “I love you and I have always loved
+you and I shall love you forever.”
+
+Her heart stood still.
+
+“David! but we had better wait. We had better think it over,” she
+managed to say. “You had better--you're the dominie--I--”
+
+“Don't you care for met” he asked.
+
+She put her hand on his and David clasped it. Kisses 'and embraces
+usually help carry off a moment that can hardly be anything but awkward,
+but kisses and embraces are distinctly impossible across a dominie's
+manse gate in full day, with the Mannings on their porch across the
+street. 'Thusia laughed a mischievous little laugh.
+
+“What!” David asked.
+
+“I'll be the funniest wife for a dominie!” she said. “Oh, David, do you
+think I'll do!”
+
+And so, as the fairy tales say, they were married. Fairy tales properly
+end so, with a brief “and lived happily ever after,” and so may most
+tales of real life end, but, however the minister's life may run,
+a minister's wife is apt to find the married years sufficiently
+interesting. She marries not only a husband but an official position,
+and the latter is quite apt to lead to plentiful situations.
+
+Mary Wiggett, calling David back too late, did not fall into a decline
+or die for love. Not until she lost David finally did she realize how
+deeply she had loved him, but she did not sulk or repine. She even
+served as a bridesmaid for 'Thusia, and with 'Thusia planned the wedding
+gown. She almost took the place of a mother, and advised and worked to
+make 'Thusia's trousseau beautiful. She seemed to wish David's bride to
+be all she herself would have been had she been David's bride. 'Thusia
+was too happy to think or care why Mary showed such interest, and David,
+who could not avoid hearing of it, was pleased and grateful.
+
+The crowning act of Mary's kindness was asking 'Thusia to call Rose
+Hinch from her poverty to help with the plainer sewing. The three
+girls spent many days together at the Fraggs' and, although David was
+mentioned as seldom as ever a bridegroom was mentioned, all three felt
+they were laboring for him in making his bride fine. Mary, with her
+calm efficiency, seemed years older than 'Thusia, and thus the three
+worked--and were to work together for many years--for love of David.
+
+
+
+
+V. CHURCH TROUBLES
+
+[Illustration:  075]
+
+
+THE leaves of the maples before the small white manse were red with
+their October hue, and the sun rays were slanting low across the little
+front yard at a late afternoon angle, when David, his hat in his hand
+and his long black coat thrown open, paused a few moments at his gate to
+greet Rose Hinch, who was approaching from up the hill.
+
+David had changed little. He was still straight and slender, his yellow
+hair still curled over his broad forehead, and his gray eyes were
+still clear and bright. His motto, “Keep an even mind under all
+circumstances,” still hung above his desk in his study. For nearly six
+years, happy years, 'Thusia had been David's wife.
+
+The old rivalry between 'Thusia and Mary seemed forgotten. For one year
+old Wiggett, refusing Mary's pleadings, had sat under a Congregational
+preacher, but the Congregational Church--being already supplied with
+leaders--offered him small opportunity to exert his stubborn and
+somewhat surly desire for dictatorship, and he returned to sit under and
+glare at David, and resumed his position of most powerful elder.
+
+During the first year of 'Thusia's married life
+
+Mary was often at the manse. 'Thusia's love was still in the frantically
+eager stage; she would have liked to have lived with one arm around
+David's neck, and she was unwittingly in constant danger of showing
+herself all a dominie's wife should not be. Her taste for bright clothes
+and her carelessness of conventionality threatened a harsh awakening for
+David. During that dangerous first year Mary made herself almost one of
+the household.
+
+'Thusia, strange to say, did not resent it. Mary kept, then and always,
+her love for David, as a good woman can. But little older than 'Thusia,
+she was far wiser and immeasurably less volatile and, having lost David
+as a lover, she transmuted her love into service.
+
+Probably she never thought her feelings into a conscious formula. At the
+most she realized that she was still very fond of David and that she was
+happier when helping him than at any other time.
+
+'Thusia's gay companions of the days before David's coming were
+quite impossible now that 'Thusia was a dominie's bride, and 'Thusia
+recognized this and was grateful for Mary's companionship during the
+months following the honeymoon. A young bride craves a friend of her
+own age, and Mary was doubly welcome. Her advice was always sound,
+and 'Thusia was quick to take it. Mary's friendship also made the
+congregation's acceptance of 'Thusia far easier, for anyone so promptly
+taken up by the daughter of the church's richest member and most
+prominent elder had her way well prepared in advance. Mary, fearing
+perhaps that 'Thusia might be annoyed by what might seem unwarranted
+interest in her affairs, was wise enough to have herself elected head of
+the women's organization that had the care and betterment of the manse
+and its furnishings. To make the house fit for a bride she suggested and
+carried through changes and purchases. She opened her own purse freely,
+and what 'Thusia did not suggest she herself suggested.
+
+“Mary is lovely!” 'Thusia told David.
+
+A year or two after Mary had thus made herself almost indispensable to
+'Thusia she married.
+
+“Oh, I knew it long ago!” 'Thusia said in answer to David's expression
+of surprise at the announcement of the impending wedding. She had known
+it a month, which was just one day less than Mary herself had known it.
+Mary's husband, one of the Derlings of Derlingport, was due to inherit
+wealth some day, but in the meanwhile old Sash-and-Door Derling was glad
+to shift the nattily dressed, inconsequential young loafer on to Mr.
+Wiggett's shoulders. Wiggett found him some sort of position in the
+Riverbank bank and young Derling gradually developed into a cheerful,
+pattering little business man, accumulating girth and losing hair.
+'Thusia rather cruelly but exactly expressed him when she told Rose
+Hinch he was something soft and blond with a gold toothpick. If Mary was
+ever dissatisfied with him she gave no sign.
+
+Those who had wondered what kind of a minister's wife flighty, flirty,
+little 'Thusia Fragg would make soon decided she made a good one. She
+can hardly be better described than by saying she sang at her work.
+David's meager stipend did not permit the employment of a maid, and
+'Thusia had little enough leisure between meals for anything but
+cheerful singing at her tasks. She cooked, swept, baked and washed.
+There were ministers' wives in Riverbank who were almost as important in
+church work as their husbands, and this was supposed to be part of their
+duties. They were expected to lead in all social money-getting affairs,
+and, in general, to be not merely wives but assistant ministers. If
+'Thusia had attempted this there might have been, even with Mary's
+backing, trouble, for every woman in the church remembered that only
+a short while before 'Thusia had been an irresponsible, dancing,
+street-gadding, young harum-scarum of a girl. Her interference would
+have been resented. With good sense, or good luck, she left this quasi
+assistant ministry to Mary, who gladly assumed it, and 'Thusia gave all
+her time to the pleasanter task of being David's happy little wife and
+housekeeper.
+
+David, at the manse gate, was waiting for Rose Hinch. Rose, when she saw
+David, came on with a brisker step. Rose had become David's protégée,
+the first and closest of many that--during his long life--gathered about
+him, leaning on him for help and sympathy. In return Rose Hinch was
+always eager to help David in any way she could. She was Riverbank's
+first precursor of the trained nurse. David and old Benedict had worried
+about her future, until David suggested that the old doctor give her
+what training he could and put her in charge of such of his cases as
+needed especial care. Rose took up the work eagerly. She lived in a
+tiny room above a store on the main street. To many in Riverbank she
+represented all that a trained nurse and a lay Sister of Charity might.
+
+“Well, Rose,” David said, “you seem happy. Is this fine October air
+getting into your blood too?”
+
+“I suppose that helps,” said Rose, “but the Long boy is so far past the
+crisis that I'm not needed any longer. I'm so glad he's getting well; he
+is such a dear, patient little fellow. That's why I'm happy, David. And
+you seem fairly well content with the world, I should judge.”
+
+“I am, Rose!” he answered. “Have you time to see 'Thusia for a minute or
+two. I know she wants to see you.”
+
+He held the gate open and Rose entered. David put his hat on one of the
+gateposts and stood with his arms on the top of the gate, “bathing in
+beauty,” as he told 'Thusia later. The sun, where it touched the maple
+leaves, turned them to flame. Through a gap in the trees he could catch
+a glimpse of the Mississippi and the varicolored foliage on the Illinois
+shore, the reds softened to purple by the October haze. For a few
+minutes he let himself forget his sick and his soul-sore people and his
+duties, and stood in happy thoughtlessness, breathing October.
+
+Rose came out.
+
+“It's all settled. I'm coming,” she said, “and, oh, David! I am so
+glad!”
+
+“We are all glad,” said David.
+
+Thus it happened that no wife ever approached motherhood more happily
+than motherless little 'Thusia. With David and kind old Doctor Benedict
+and gentle, efficient Rose Hinch at hand, and Mary as delighted as if
+the child was to be her own, and all of them loving her, 'Thusia did
+not give a moment to fear. The baby, when it came, was a boy, and Doctor
+Benedict said it was the finest in the world, and immediately nominated
+himself the baby's uncle. He bought the finest solid silver, gold-lined
+cup to be had in Riverbank and had it engraved, “Davy, Junior, from
+Uncle Benedict,” with the date. This was more than he did for Mary
+Derling's baby, which came a month later. He gave a silver spoon there,
+one of about forty that lucky infant received from near and far.
+
+'Thusia was up and about, singing as before, in due time. Rose Hinch
+remained for the better part of a. month and departed absolutely
+refusing any compensation. The winter was as happy as any David ever
+knew. Davy Junior was a strong and fairly well-behaved baby; 'Thusia was
+in a state of ecstatic bliss, and in the town all the former opposition
+to David had been long since forgotten. With the calmness of an older
+man but with a young man's energy he went up and down the streets of
+the town on his comforting errands. He was fitting into his niche in the
+world with no rough edges, all of them having been worn smooth, and it
+seemed that it was his lot to remain for the rest of his life dominie
+of the Presbyterian Church of Riverbank, each year better loved and more
+helpful.
+
+April and May passed blissfully, but by the end of June an unexpected
+storm had gathered, and David did not know whether he could remain in
+Riverbank another month.
+
+Late in May an epidemic of diphtheria appeared in Riverbank, several
+cases being in David's Sunday school and the school was closed. Mary, in
+a panic, fled to Derlingport with her child. She remained nearly a month
+with her husband's parents, but by that, time Derlingport was as overrun
+by the disease as Riverbank had been and conditions were reported better
+at home; so she came back, bringing the child. She returned to find the
+church in the throes of one of those violent quarrels that come with
+all the violence and suddenness of a tropical storm. Her short absence
+threatened to result in David's expulsion from the church.
+
+On the last Saturday of June old Sam Wiggett sat at the black mahogany
+desk in his office studying the columns of a New York commercial
+journal--it was the year when the lumber situation induced him to
+let who wished think him a fool and to make his first big purchase of
+Wisconsin timberlands--when his daughter, Mary Derling, entered. She
+came sweeping into the office dressed in all the fuss and furbelow of
+the fashionable young matron of that day, and with her was her cousin,
+Ellen Hardcome. Sam Wiggett turned.
+
+“Huh! what are you down here for!” he asked. He was never pleased when
+interrupted at his office. “Where's the baby!”
+
+“I left him with nurse in the carriage,” said Mary. “Can't you say
+good-day to Ellen, father!”
+
+“How are you!” said Mr. Wiggett briefly. Mrs. Hardcome acknowledged the
+greeting and waited for Mary to proceed.
+
+“Well, father,” said Mary, “this thing simply cannot go on any longer.
+Something will have to be done. This quarrel is absolutely breaking up
+the church.”
+
+“Huh!” growled Mr. Wiggett. “What's happening now!”
+
+“David is going to preach to-morrow,” said Mary dropping into a vacant
+chair and motioning Ellen to be seated. “After all the trouble we took
+to get Dr. Hotchkiss to come from Derling-port, and after the ladies
+offering to pay for a vacation for David out of the fund--”
+
+“What!” shouted Wiggett, striking the desk a mighty blow with his fist.
+“Didn't I tell you you women have no right to use that fund for any such
+nonsense! That's money raised to pay on the mortgage. You've no right to
+spend it for vacations for your star-gazing, whipper-snapper preacher.
+No! Nor for anything else!”
+
+“But, father!” Mary insisted.
+
+“I don't care anything about your 'but, father.' That's mortgage money.
+You women ought to have turned it over to the bank long ago. You have no
+right to keep it. Pay for a vacation! You act like a lot of babies!”
+
+“Father--”
+
+“Pay for a vacation! Much he needs a vacation! Strong as an ox and
+healthy as a bull; doesn't have anything to do the whole year 'round but
+potter around town and preach a couple of sermons. It's you women get
+these notions into your preachers' heads. You turn them into a lot of
+babies.”
+
+“Father, _will_ you let me say one word before you quite tear me to
+pieces! A great many people in our church _like_ David Dean. It is all
+right to bark 'Woof! woof! Throw him out neck and crop!' but you know as
+well as I do that would split the church.”
+
+“Well, let it split! If we can't have peace--”
+
+“Exactly, father!” Mary said quietly. “If we cannot have peace in the
+church it will be better for David Dean to go elsewhere, but before that
+happens--for I think many of our people would leave our church if David
+goes--shouldn't we do all we can to bring peace? Ellen agrees with me.”
+
+“In a measure I do; yes,” said Ellen Hard-come.
+
+“Ellen and Mr. Hardcome,” Mary continued, “are willing to promise to do
+nothing immediately if David will go away for a month or two. If we can
+send him away for a couple of months until some of the bitterest feeling
+dies everything may be all right. We women will be glad enough to make
+up and pay back anything we have to borrow from the fund. I think,
+father, if you spoke to David he might go.”
+
+“Better get rid of him now,” Wiggett growled. Ellen Hardcome smiled.
+This was what she wanted. Mary looked at the heavy-faced old dictator.
+She knew her father well enough to feel the hopelessness of her mission.
+Old Wiggett had never forgiven David for marrying 'Thusia instead of
+Mary, and because he would a thousand times have preferred David to
+Derling as a son-in-law he hated David the more.
+
+“It isn't only that David would go, father,” Mary said. “If he is sent
+away we will lose the Hodges and the Martins and the Ollendorfs and old
+Peter Grimby. I don't mind those old maid Curlews going, or people like
+the Hansoms or the Browns, but you know what the Hodges and old Peter
+Grimby do for the church every year. We thought that if you could get
+David to take a vacation, explaining to him that it would be a good
+thing to let everything quiet down--”
+
+Old Sam Wiggett chuckled.
+
+“Who thought! Ellen never thought of that,” he said.
+
+“I thought of it,” said Mary.
+
+“And he won't go!” chuckled Wiggett. “I give him credit--he's a fighter.
+You women have stirred up the fight in him. I told you to shut up and
+keep out of this, didn't I! Why--that Dean has more sense than all of
+you. You must have thought he was a fool, asking him to go on a vacation
+while Ellen and all stayed here to stir things up against him. He has
+brains and that wife of his has spunk--do you know what she told me when
+I met her on the street this morning!”
+
+Mary did not ask him.
+
+“Told me I wasn't fit to clean her husband's shoes!” said Wiggett.
+
+“I hope--” said Mary.
+
+“Well, you needn't, because I didn't,” said her father. “I didn't say
+anything. Turned my back on her and walked away.”
+
+“And I suppose you haven't heard the latest thing she has said!” said
+Ellen Hardcome bitterly. “She says I have no voice, and that I would not
+be in the choir if my husband did not have charge of the music.”
+
+“Said that, did she!” chuckled Wiggett.
+
+“She said my upper register was squeaky, if you please!”
+
+'Thusia had indeed said this. She had said it years before and to a
+certain Miss Carrol who was then her friend. What Miss Carrol had said
+about the same voice, she being in the choir with Mrs. Hardcome, does
+not matter. Miss Carrol had not thought it necessary to tell that to
+Ellen. With the taking of sides in the present church quarrel all those
+who were against David racked their brains to recall things 'Thusia had
+said that could be used to set anyone against the dominie. There were
+plenty of such harmless, little confidences to recall. 'Thusia, during
+her first married years--and for long after--was still 'Thusia; she
+tingled with life and she loved companionship and liked to talk and
+listen. Every woman expresses her harmless opinions to her friends,
+but it is easy for the friend, when she becomes an enemy and wishes for
+recruits, to use this contraband ammunition. It is a woman's privilege,
+it seems. The women who, like Rose Hinch, and certain women you know,
+are accepted by men on an equality of friendship, make the least use of
+it, for even among children there is no term of opprobrium worse than
+“tattletale.” It was but natural for yellow-visaged Miss Connerton, for
+instance, who had once said to 'Thusia, “Don't you get tired of Mrs.
+Hallmeyer's eternal purple dresses,” and who had accepted 'Thusia's
+“Yes” as a confidential expression of opinion as between one woman and
+another, to run to Mrs. Hall-meyer, when everyone was against 'Thusia,
+and say: “And I suppose you know what she said about you, Mrs.
+Hallmeyer? That she simply got tired to death of seeing your eternal
+purple dresses!”
+
+David was fighting for his life, for his life was his work in Riverbank.
+He was not making the fight alone. Seven or more years of faithful
+service had won him staunch friends who were glad to fight for him,
+but the miserable feature of a church quarrel is that--win or lose--the
+minister must suffer. The two months of the quarrel were the unhappiest
+of his life, and David made the fight, not because he hoped to remain in
+Riverbank after it was ended, but because he felt it his duty to stand
+by what he believed was right, until he should be plainly and actually
+told to go. The majority of his people, he felt, were with him, but that
+would make little difference in the final outcome. Although he tried in
+every way to lessen the bitterness of the quarrel, so that his triumph,
+if he won, might be the less offensive, he knew his triumph could mean
+but one thing. A body, nearly half the church, would prepare to leave,
+and his supporters, having won, would suggest that it would be better
+for David--who could not keep body and soul together on what the remnant
+of a church could afford to pay him--and better for the church, that he
+should resign and carry his triumph elsewhere.
+
+Win or lose David was likely to lose, but until the final moment he did
+not mean to back down. Had he felt himself in the wrong he would have
+acknowledged it at once; had he been in the right, and no one but
+himself concerned, he would have preached a farewell sermon and would
+have departed. He remained and made the fight because he was loyal to
+'Thusia!
+
+It was, indeed, 'Thusia against whom the fight was being made, and it
+was Ellen Hardcome to whom the whole miserable affair was due. It was
+all brought about by a pair of black prunella gaiters.
+
+
+
+
+VI. THE BLACK PRUNELLA GAITERS
+
+
+SETH HARDCOME, while not an elder, was one of the most prominent men in
+the church, and if anything could be said against him it was that he
+was almost too upright. Men are intended, no doubt, to be more or less
+miserable sinners, but Seth Hardcome was, to outward view, absolutely
+irreproachable. He was in the shoe business on the main street. It is a
+nice, clean business and does not call for much sweat of the brow (a boy
+can be hired to open the cases) or necessitate rough clothes, and Seth
+Hardcome was always clean, neat and suave. He was a gentleman, polite
+and courteous. He sold the best shoe he could give for the money.
+Among other boots, shoes and slippers he sold gaiters--then quite the
+fashion--with prunella uppers and elastic gores at the sides. Most of
+the ladies wore them.
+
+'Thusia needed new gaiters. David's stipend was so small in those
+days--it was never large--that, with the new baby, he had hard figuring
+to avoid running into debt and 'Thusia did her share in the matter of
+economy. She had worn her old gaiters until they were hardly fit to
+wear. The elastic had rotted and hung in warped folds; the gaiters had
+been soled and resoled and the soles were again in holes; finally one of
+the gaiters broke through at the side of the foot. 'Thusia could not go
+out of the house in such footwear and she asked David to stop at
+Hardcome's for a new pair. She wrote the size on a slip of paper.
+
+“The black prunella gaiters, David; the same that I always get. Mr.
+Hardcome will know,” she said.
+
+David bought the gaiters. He handed Mr. Hardcome the slip of paper, and
+Mr. Hardcome himself went to the shelves and selected the gaiters. He
+wrapped them with his own hands. This was a Monday, and not until the
+next Sunday did 'Thusia have occasion to wear the gaiters. It was a day
+following a rain, and the streets were awash with yellow mud. 'Thusia
+came home limping, her poor little toes crimped in the ends of the
+gaiters.
+
+“My poor, poor feet!” she cried. “David, I nearly died; I'm sure you
+never preached so long in your life. Oh, I'll be glad to get these off!”
+
+She pulled off one of the offending gaiters and looked at the sole. The
+size stamped on the sole was a size smaller than 'Thusia wore. The
+next day David returned the gaiters to Mr. Hardcome. Mr. Hardcome's
+professional smile fled as David explained. He shook his head
+sorrowfully as he opened the parcel and looked at the shoes. There
+was yellow clay on the heels and a spattering of yellow clay on the
+prunella.
+
+“Too bad!” said Mr. Hardcome, still shaking his head. “She's worn them.”
+
+“Yes; to church, yesterday,” David said. “I'm sorry,” said Mr. Hardcome,
+and he really was sorry, “I can't take them back. My one invariable
+rule; boots or shoes I sometimes exchange, but gaiters never! After they
+have been worn I cannot exchange gaiters.”
+
+“But in this case,” said David, “when they were the wrong size? You
+remember my wife herself wrote the size on a slip. It doesn't seem, when
+it was not her error--”
+
+“That, of course,” said Mr. Hardcome with a sad smile, “we cannot know.
+I am not likely to have made a mistake. Mrs. Dean should have tried the
+shoes before she wore them.”
+
+David did not argue. He had the average man's reluctance to exchange
+goods, particularly when soiled, and he bought and paid for another
+pair, and nothing more might have come of it had 'Thusia not happened to
+know that old Mrs. Brown wore gaiters a size smaller than herself.
+
+'Thusia did not give the gaiters to Mrs. Brown without first having
+tried to get Mr. Hardcome to take them back. She went herself. David's
+money must not be wasted if she could prevent it, and it is a fact that
+when she left Mr. Hardcome's store she left in something of a huff. She
+cared nothing whatever for Mr. Hardcome's rules, but she was angry to
+think he should suggest that she had written the wrong size on the slip
+of paper. Mr. Hardcome was cold and polite; he bowed her out of the
+store as politely as he would have bowed out Mrs. Derling or any other
+lady customer, but he was firm. It was natural enough that 'Thusia
+should tell the story to old Mrs. Brown when she gave her the gaiters.
+
+From Mrs. Brown the story of the black prunella gaiters circulated from
+one lady to another, changing form like a putty ball batted from hand
+to hand, until it reached Mrs. Hardcome. One, or it may have been
+two, Sundays later David, coming down from his pulpit, found Mr.
+Hardcome--white-faced and nervous--waiting for him. Suspecting nothing
+David held out his hand. Mr. Hardcome ignored it.
+
+“If you have one minute, Mr. Dean,” he said in the hard voice of a man
+who has been put up to something by his wife, “I would like to have a
+word with you.”
+
+“Why, certainly,” said David.
+
+“It has come to my ears,” said Mr. Hardcome, “that your wife is
+circulating a report that I am untruthful.”
+
+David almost gasped with astonishment. He could not imagine 'Thusia
+doing any such thing.
+
+“I do not hold you in any way responsible for what your wife may say
+or do, Mr. Dean,” said Mr. Hardcome in the same hard voice. “I do not
+believe for one moment that you have sanctioned any such slanderous
+remarks. I have the utmost respect and affection for you, but I
+tell you, Mr. Dean”--his voice shook with the anger he tried to
+control--“that woman--your wife--must apologize! I will not have such
+reports circulated about me! That is all. I merely expect you to do your
+duty. If your wife will apologize I will do my duty as a Christian and
+say no more about it.”
+
+David, standing in amazement, chanced to look past Mr. Hardcome, and he
+saw many of his congregation watching him. He had not the slightest idea
+of what Mr. Hardcome was speaking, but he felt, with the quick intuition
+of a sensitive man, that these others knew and were keen to catch his
+attitude as he answered. He put his hand on Mr. Hardcome's arm.
+
+“This must be some mistake, Hardcome,” he said. “I have not a doubt it
+can all be satisfactorily explained. My people are waiting for me now.
+Can you come to the house to-night? After the sermon! That's good!”
+
+He let his hand slide down Mr. Hardcome's sleeve and stepped forward,
+extending his hand for the shaking of hands that always awaited him
+after the service. Before he reached the door his brow was troubled.
+Not a few seemed to yield their hands reluctantly; some had manifestly
+hurried away to avoid him. 'Thusia, always the center of a smiling
+group, stood almost alone in the end of her pew. He saw Mrs. Hardcome
+sweep past 'Thusia without so much as a glance of recognition.
+
+On the way home he spoke to 'Thusia. She knew at once that the trouble
+must be something about the black prunella gaiters.
+
+“But, David,” she said, looking full into his eyes, “he is quite wrong
+if he says I said anything about untruthfulness. I have never said
+anything like that. I have never said anything about him or the gaiters
+except to old Mrs. Brown. I did tell her I was quite sure I had written
+the correct size on the slip of paper I gave you. But I never, never
+said Mr. Hardcome was untruthful!”
+
+“Then it will be very easily settled,” said David. “We will tell him
+that when he comes to-night.”
+
+Mr. Hardcome did not go to David's alone. When David opened the door it
+was quite a delegation he faced. Mrs. Hardcome was with her husband, and
+old Sam Wiggett, Ned Long and James Cruser filed into the little parlor
+behind them. David met them cheerfully. He placed chairs and stood with
+his back to the door, his hands clasped behind him. 'Thusia sat at one
+side of the room. David smiled.
+
+“I have spoken to my wife,” he said, “and--”
+
+“If you will pardon me for one minute, Mr. Dean,” said Mrs. Hardcome,
+interrupting him. “I do not wish to have any false impressions. I do not
+want my husband blamed, if there is any blame. I want it understood that
+I insisted that he ask for this apology. I am not the woman to have my
+husband called a--called untruthful without doing something about it. It
+is not for me to say that plenty of us thought you made a mistake when
+you chose a wife, that is neither here nor there. A man marries as he
+pleases. We don't ask anything unreasonable. If Mrs. Dean will
+apologize--”
+
+Little 'Thusia, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked up at David
+with wistful eagerness. David, stern enough now, shook his head.
+
+“I have spoken to my wife,” he said, “and I have her assurance that
+she has never said anything whatever in the least reflecting on Mr.
+Hardcome's veracity. Neither she nor I can say more.”
+
+“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Hardcome in a shocked tone, glancing at her husband
+as if to say: “So she is lying about this too!” Mr. Hardcome arose and
+took up his hat.
+
+“We came in a most forgiving spirit, Brother Dean, feeling sure, from
+what you told me, that an apology would be given without quibble. We
+wished to avoid all anger and quarreling. If we begin a dispute as to
+what Mrs. Dean said or did not say we cannot tell what unpleasantness
+may result. I am taking this stand not to protect myself, but to protect
+others in our church who may be similarly attacked. We wish Mrs. Dean to
+apologize.”
+
+“Mrs. Dean cannot apologize for what she has not done.”
+
+There was no mistaking David's tone. If he was angry he hid his anger;
+he was stating an unchangeable fact.
+
+When he and 'Thusia were alone again she cried in his arms; she told him
+it would have been better if he had let her apologize--that she did not
+care, she would rather apologize a thousand times than make trouble
+for him--but David was firm. Old Sam Wiggett, on the way home, told the
+Hardcomes they had been fools; that they had been offered all they had
+a right to ask. It was not, however, his quarrel. Mrs. Hardcome was the
+offended party, and Mrs. Hardcome would hear of nothing less than an
+apology.
+
+In a week or less the church was plunged into all the mean pettiness of
+a church quarrel. The black prunella gaiters and the slip of paper with
+the shoe size were, while not forgotten, almost lost in the slimy mass
+of tattle and chatter. James Cruser in a day changed from a partisan of
+the Hardcomes to a bitter enemy, because Mrs. MacDorty told Mrs. Cruser
+that Mrs. Hardcome had said Mr. Cruser was trying to befriend both sides
+and was double-faced. Ned Long, looming as the leader of the Hardcome
+faction, told of a peculiar mortgage old James P. Wardop had--he
+said--extorted from Widow Wilmot, and Mr. Wardop became the staunchest
+supporter of David, although he had always said David was the worst
+preacher a man ever sat under. It was--“and she's a nice one to stick up
+for the Deans when everybody knows”--and--“but what else can you expect
+from a man like him, who was mean enough to”--and so on.
+
+'Thusia wept a great many tears when she was not with David. The quarrel
+was like a wasp-like a nest of wasps. From whatever quarter a stinging
+bit of maliciousness set out, and whoever it stung in its circling
+course, it invariably ended at 'Thusia's door. In a short time the
+affair had become a bitter factional quarrel. There were those who
+supported Mr. Hardcome and those who supported Mr. Wardop, but the
+fight became a battle to drive 'Thusia out of Riverbank and the result
+threatened to be the same, whichever side finally considered itself
+beaten. Many would leave the church.
+
+During those weeks David's face became thin and drawn. Even the actions
+of his closest friend, Dr. Benedict, hurt him, for Benedict refused
+to remain neutral and became a raging partisan for David. The old
+bachelor--while he never admitted it--adored 'Thusia and since he
+had been dubbed “Uncle” he considered her his daughter (a mixing of
+relationships) and nothing 'Thusia could do was wrong. He hurt David's
+cause by his violence. Even 'Thusia's own father, Mr. Fragg, was less
+partisan. David tried to act as peacemaker, but soon the quarrel seemed
+to have gone beyond any adjustment.
+
+Mary Wiggett went home from her father's office deeply hurt because her
+father was uncompromisingly against David. Ellen Hardcome was delighted.
+With old Sam Wiggett on her side she was sure of victory, and when she
+left Mary she set about planning a final blow against David. She found
+her husband in his shoe store and told him of the manner in which
+old Wiggett had refused to help Mary. Together Ellen and her husband
+discussed the best method of administering the _coup de grâce_.
+Hardcome, being neither an elder nor a trustee, doubted the advisability
+of forcing the matter immediately upon the attention of either body, for
+he was not yet sure enough of them. The decision finally reached was to
+ask for an unofficial meeting at which the opposition to David could
+be crystallized--a meeting made up of enough prominent members of the
+church to practically overawe any undecided elders and trustees. With
+Sam Wiggett at the head of such a meeting no one could doubt the result.
+David would have to go.
+
+Hardcome's first step was to see Sam Wiggett, for he desired, above all
+else, to have Wiggett call the meeting. The stubborn old man refused.
+
+“I'm with you,” he said. “That wife of Dean's made all this trouble, but
+I never sold her a shoe. You started this; call your own meeting.”
+
+“You'll attend!” asked Hardcome.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And may we make you chairman!”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“There may be some there who will try to talk down any motion or
+resolution we may want to pass--”
+
+“You leave them to me!” said Wiggett.
+
+Of the proposed meeting Mary knew nothing. She planned to run down to
+see David and 'Thusia after supper, although she had but faint hope of
+inducing David to leave Riverbank for a “vacation” now that her father
+had refused his aid. Wiggett, who still remained the head of his
+household, although Mary and her husband were nominally in control,
+ate his supper in grim silence and nothing was said about David or the
+church affairs. Nor did Mary run down to the manse after supper as she
+had planned. When the meal was half finished her nurse called her away
+from the supper table to see her child, who was suddenly feverish and
+“stopped up.” Mary did not return, and Derling, when he had ended his
+meal, found her holding the little one in her arms.
+
+“George,” she said, “I'm worried about baby. I'm afraid he's sick. Touch
+his cheek; see how hot he is. Go for Dr. Benedict. I'm frightened.”
+
+“Benedict!” said Derling. “What do you want that fellow for! I won't
+have him in the house. I'll get Martin. I won't have Benedict, always
+hanging about that dear dominie of yours!”
+
+“He's jealous!” thought Mary with a sudden inward gasp of surprise. She
+bent forward and brushed the baby's hair from the hot forehead. That
+Derling could be jealous of David Dean had never occurred to Mary. Her
+marriage had been so completely an alliance of fortune rather than of
+love, and Derling had seemed so indifferent and lacking in affection,
+that she had never even considered that jealousy might have a part in
+his nature. Derling, she knew, conducted plenty of flirtations on his
+own side; some were rather notorious affairs; but Mary was conscious of
+never having overstepped the lines set for a good wife. She did not deny
+to herself that she felt still a great affection for David, and she felt
+that for David to leave Riverbank would be the greatest sorrow of her
+life, but she had never imagined that Derling might think he had cause
+for jealousy.
+
+Derling was, however, like many men who are willing to flirt with
+other women, an extremely jealous man. He was jealous of the time and
+attention Mary gave the dominie. Derling had, therefore, thrown himself
+into the ranks of the Hardcome adherents, and he had been one of those
+who ran afoul of old Dr. Benedict's keen tongue. Some of the advice
+Benedict had given him would have done him good had he acted on it, but
+it cut deep. The old doctor knew human nature and how to make it squirm.
+
+“Benedict is so much better with children, George,” said Mary, looking
+up. “He seems to work miracles, sometimes.”
+
+“If he came in this house, I would throw him out,” said Derling. “I
+won't have him. That's flat!”
+
+“Well, get Martin then, but I _don't_ have the faith in him I have in
+Benedict,” Mary said.
+
+Martin came. He said it was nothing, that the child had a croupy cold
+and he left a powder for the fever and advised Mary what to do in case
+the child got worse during the night. When he came the next day he
+said the boy was much better. That evening Derling, sent downtown for
+medicine, heard at the druggist's that 'Thusia's child had diphtheria
+and that there was a fresh outbreak of the disease in town. He drove
+his horse home at a gallop and found Martin there, and Mary, white and
+panic-stricken, wringing her hands. When the young doctor admitted that
+the child had diphtheria Derling, in a rage, almost threw him out of
+the house. A slight fever was one thing, the dread disease was quite
+another, and he left Mary weeping, and lashed his horse in search of Dr.
+Benedict.
+
+The old doctor was not at home; Derling found him at David's and
+found him in a tearing rage. Mrs. Hardcome, hoping to force David's
+resignation, had just called to warn David that if he wished to protect
+himself he must attend the meeting the next evening. Benedict was still
+spluttering with anger and tramping up and down David's little study,
+when Derling found him.
+
+“You!” he shouted. “Go to your house! I'd let you all rot first, the
+whole lot of you. Go get your Martin, you called him quick enough.
+I wouldn't go if you got on your knees to me. You and your dog-faced
+father-in-law and your Hardcomes, trying to drive this poor girl out of
+town! If this was my house I'd throw you out. I will anyway! Get out!”
+
+Poor Derling--harmless enough creature--did all but get on his knees.
+He went away haggard, and looking twenty years older, to find some other
+physician. He got Wagenheim, a poor substitute. In fact there was no
+substitute for Benedict. It may have been that luck favored him, but the
+old doctor seemed able to wrest children from the clutches of the awful
+disease far oftener than other physicians. Derling felt that the angry
+old doctor had condemned his son to death. With the witlessness of
+a distracted man he tried to find Rose Hinch at her room on the main
+street, thinking Rose might plead for him with Benedict. He might have
+known Rose would be with 'Thusia in such an hour of trial. He went home,
+dreading to face Mary, and found Wagenheim doing what he could, which
+was little enough. Mary was not there.
+
+When Wagenheim came Mary had guessed that Derling had not got Benedict,
+and she guessed why. She ran, half dressed and hatless as she was, all
+the way to the manse. In her agony she still thought clearly; Benedict
+would be there, and if he was not there David would be, and in
+David--calm and faithful to all his people even when they turned against
+him--she placed her hope. In the dark she could not find the bell and
+she was fumbling at the door when it opened and 'Thusia stood before
+her, silhouetted against the light. With the impulse of one suffering
+mother in the presence of another, Mary grasped 'Thusia's arms.
+
+“'Thusia!” she cried. “My boy is dying and Benedict won't come. Can't
+you make him come? He knows, and he won't come!”
+
+'Thusia drew back in horror.
+
+“He knows? And he won't go?” she exclaimed. “But Mary, he must
+go! Why--why--but he must go, Mary! I don't understand!
+Benedict--won't--go?”
+
+She turned and flew to the study where Benedict had usurped David's
+easy-chair. She stood before him, one mother pleading for another. No
+one but the three--Benedict and 'Thusia and Mary--will ever know what
+she said, but when she had said it old Benedict drew himself out of the
+chair and went with Mary.
+
+A week later little Davy, 'Thusia's child, died. Mary was more
+fortunate; her boy recovered and although it was long before he was
+strong again Mary treasured him all the more. Rose Hinch, her work at
+David's ended, went to her and for many weeks was like another mother to
+the sick child.
+
+But it was the night following old Benedict's denunciation of Derling
+and all the Hardcome clique that David Dean found a new supporter. The
+meeting that was to end his stay in Riverbank was to be held in Ned
+Long's office and David went early, not to be accused of cowardice. He
+left 'Thusia and Rose with the boy, drove old Benedict away, and went
+alone. He walked slowly, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind
+him, for he had no hope left. It was so he came to the foot of Ned
+Long's office stairs and face to face with old Sam Wiggett standing in
+the dark of the entry. He stopped short, for the bulky old man did not
+move aside.
+
+“Huh!” growled the old lumberman. “So it's you, is it? What are you
+doing here?”
+
+“There's a meeting--” David began.
+
+“Meeting? No, by the eternal! there's not going to be any meeting, now
+nor ever! I'll throw them out neck and crop; I'll boot them out, but
+there'll be no meeting. Go home!” In the dark the heavy-jowled old
+man scowled at the slender young dominie. Suddenly he put his hand on
+David's shoulder. “Dean--Dean--” he said; “you and that little wife of
+yours--” That was all he could say. Mary's boy, at home, was making the
+awful struggle for life.
+
+And there was no meeting. A month later Mr. and Mrs. Hardcome went to
+the Episcopalians, and a half year later to the Congregationalists,
+where they remained. There was a lull in the church quarrel during the
+days when little Davy was sickest, and while David and 'Thusia were in
+the first cruel days of grief. There were but few bitter enough to wish
+to take up the fight again against the sorrowing 'Thusia. The quarrel
+was buried with little Davy, for when David entered the pulpit again,
+and the congregation waited to learn how their leaders would lead them,
+the powerful man of the church decided for them. When David came down
+from the pulpit old Sam Wiggett, stolid, heavy-faced and thick-necked,
+waited for him at the head of the aisle and placed his arm around
+David's shoulders, and Mary Derling crossed the aisle and stood beside
+'Thusia Dean.
+
+David had won.
+
+
+
+
+VII. MACK
+
+
+DAVID had won. Except for the defection of the Hardcomes--who left
+behind them a feeling that they were trouble-makers and were not greatly
+regretted--the church continued its even tenor. It must always be a
+question, however, whether David would not have done better by losing.
+Riverbank grew in population, as shown by the census, but the growth was
+not one to prosper the Presbyterian Church at Riverbank. The sawmills
+brought nearly all the newcomers--immigrants from Germany almost
+entirely--and these had their own churches. The increase in population
+offered little material with which to build up David's congregation.
+
+At that time but few farmers, grown wealthy, moved into town. The town
+hardly realized, until the lumber business died, how contracted was
+the circle of its industries. The few men of wealth were all
+firmly affiliated with one church or another--as were also all the
+well-to-do--and, with no available new blood, it was inevitable that the
+numbers in the existing churches should remain almost stationary.
+
+Liberality was not a trait of the wealthy of Riverbank at that day. Like
+old Sam Wiggett, those with money had had their hard grubbing at first
+and knew almost too well the value of a dollar. The ministers of the
+various churches in Riverbank were paid but paltry sums and their
+salaries were often in arrears.
+
+Had David lost his fight and been driven from Riverbank he might, and
+probably would, have gone far. He preached well and was still young.
+It is hardly possible that he would have felt for a new church the
+affection he felt for the church at Riverbank, and he might have gone
+from church to church until he was in some excellent metropolitan
+pulpit. For Riverbank he felt, coming here so young, something of the
+affection of a man for his birthplace.
+
+In the years following the church quarrel David began to feel the pinch
+of an inadequate remuneration. After little Roger was born 'Thusia was,
+for a year, more or less of an invalid, and a maid was a necessity. The
+additional drains on David's income, slight as they were, meant real
+hardship when he had with difficulty kept out of debt before. Two
+years later little Alice was born, and 'Thusia was kept to her bed, an
+invalid, longer than before. They were sad days for David. For a month
+'Thusia hung between life and death, and Mary Derling and Rose Hinch,
+with old Dr. Benedict, spared neither time nor affection.
+
+Rose Hinch put aside all remunerative calls and nursed 'Thusia night
+and day. Dr. Benedict was equally faithful, and the women of David's
+congregation deluged the manse with jellies, flowers, bowls of “floating
+island” and other dainties, but when 'Thusia was up and about again
+David faced a debt of nearly three hundred dollars. As soon as 'Thusia
+was able to stand the strain the church gave David a donation party.
+Pickles and preserves predominated, but a purse made a part of the
+donation and left David only some hundred and seventy or eighty dollars
+in debt.
+
+This is no great sum nor did any of his creditors press him unduly for
+payment. His bills were small and scattered. He tried to pay them, but
+in spite of 'Thusia's greatest efforts each salary period saw an
+unpaid balance seldom smaller, and sometimes slightly greater, than
+the original debt. This debt worried David and 'Thusia far more than it
+worried his creditors--who worried not at all--but before long it seemed
+to become, as such things do, a part of life. David's bills, paid at one
+end and increased at the other, were never over three months in arrears.
+In Riverbank at that day this was considered unusually prompt pay.
+Accounts were usually rendered once a year. But the debt was always
+there.
+
+The year her boy was three Mary Derling divorced her husband. For some
+time one of Derling's flirtations had been more serious than Mary had
+imagined. When she heard the truth she talked the matter over calmly
+with her father and her husband. All three were of one mind. Derling's
+father had consistently refused to give the son money and Sam Wiggett
+had again and again put his hand in his pocket to make good sums lost
+by Derling in ill-considered business ventures. The truth was that
+Derling's flirtations were costing too much, and he spent more than he
+could afford. Wiggett, to be rid of this constant drain, gave Derling a
+good lump sum and Mary kept the child. The divorce was granted quietly,
+no one knowing anything about it until it was all over. There was
+no scandal whatever. Derling went back to Derlingport and was soon
+forgotten, and Mary resumed her maiden name. More than ever, now, she
+took part in David's work, and her purse was always at his service for
+his works of charity. David, Rose Hinch and Mary were a triumvirate
+working together for the good.
+
+At thirty-seven Dominie Dean was as fully a man as he ever would be. He
+was fated to cling always to his boyish optimism; never to age into a
+heavily authoritative head of a flock, with a smooth paunch over which
+to pass a plump hand as if blessing a satisfactory digestive apparatus.
+To the last day of his life he remained youthfully slender, and his
+clear gray eyes and curly hair, even when the latter turned gray,
+suggested something boyish.
+
+It is inevitable that fifteen years of ministry shall either make or mar
+the man inside the minister. David Dean had ripened without drying into
+a hack of church routine. At thirty he had, without being aware of the
+fact, entered a new period of his ministry, and at thirty-seven, like
+a pilot who knows his ship, he was no longer prone to excitement over
+small difficulties. If he was no longer a flash of fire, he was a
+steadier flame.
+
+In fifteen years David had come to love Riverbank, even to having
+a half-quizzical and smilingly philosophical love for the Wiggetts,
+Grims-bys and others who had once been thorns in his flesh. Their simple
+closefistedness, generosity based on ambition and transparent, harmless,
+hypocrisy were, after all, human traits, and while not exactly pleasant
+neither more nor less than part of the world in which David had his work
+to do. Wherever one went, or whatever work one undertook, there were
+Wiggetts and Hardcomes and Grimsbys. They were part of life. They
+were irritants, but it rested with David whether he should feel their
+irritation as a scratch or a tickle. Until he was thirty he had often
+smarted; now he smiled.
+
+In the self-centered little town there were good people and bad and, as
+is the case everywhere, fewer actively vicious than we are pleased to
+assume. David cherished a philosophy of pity for these. If old Wiggett
+had so much good in him, and 'Thusia, who was now as faithful a wife
+and mother as Riverbank could boast, had once been on the verge of being
+cold-shouldered into a life of triviality, if not of shame, no doubt all
+these others, if they had been properly guided in the beginning, might
+have been as normal as old Mrs. Grelling, or the absolutely colorless
+Mr. Prell. With all this willingness to make allowances for the sinner,
+David had a hard, uncompromising, Presbyterian hatred for the sin. In
+one of his sermons he put it thus: “To sin is human; the sin is of
+the devil.” It was in this spirit David began his long fight against
+Mac-dougal Graham's personal devil.
+
+When David Dean came to Riverbank Mack Graham had been a bright-eyed,
+saucy, curly-haired little fellow of five or six; a “why!” sort of
+boy--“Why do you wear a white necktie? Why do you have to stand in the
+pulpit! Why did Mr. Wiggett get up and go out! Why's that horse standing
+on three legs!” Certain ladies of the church made a great pet of Mack
+and helped spoil him, for he was as handsome as he was saucy. An only
+son, born late in his parents' lives, they prepared the way for his
+disgrace. It may be well enough, as Emerson advises, to “cast the
+bantling on the rocks,” but leaving an only son to his own devices on
+the theory that he is the finest boy in creation and can do no wrong
+does not work out as well. At nineteen Mack was wild, unruly and
+drinking himself to ruin.
+
+David's first knowledge of the state into which Mack had fallen came
+from 'Thusia. There had been one of those periodical church squabbles
+in which the elder members had locked horns with the younger and more
+progressive over some unimportant question that had rapidly grown
+vital, and David had, for a while, been busy impoverishing the little
+conflagration so that it might burn out the more quickly. The church was
+subject to these little affairs. In the fifteen years of his ministry
+David had seen the church change slowly as a natural result of children
+reaching maturity, and the passing of the aged. Some, who liked David's
+sermons left other churches and joined the congregation, and there were
+a few accretions of newcomers, but from the first the older members had
+resented any interference with their management on the part of new and
+younger members. A change in the choir, an effort to have the dingy
+interior of the church redecorated, any one of a thousand petty matters
+would, if suggested by the newer members, throw the older men into a
+line of battle.
+
+It was, in a way, a quarrelsome church. It was, indeed, not only in
+Riverbank but throughout the country, a quarrelsome time. The first
+rills of broader doctrine were beginning to permeate the hot rock of
+petrified religion and where they met there was sure to be steam and
+boiling water and discomfort for the minister, whether he held with one
+side or the other, or tried to be neutral. The Riverbank church, because
+of the conservatism of the older members, was particularly prone to
+petty quarrels, and this was one of David's greatest distresses. At
+heart he was with those who favored the broader view, but he was able to
+appreciate the fond jealousy of the older men and women for old thoughts
+and ways.
+
+It was after one of these quarrels, when he had found himself unduly
+busied healing wounds, that 'Thusia came running across from the
+Mannings', opposite the manse, and tapped on David's study door.
+
+“Yes! Come in!” he said.
+
+“David! It's Mack--Mack Graham--he is drunk!”
+
+“Mack drunk!” David cried, for he could not believe he had heard aright.
+“Not our Mack!”
+
+David, his lanky form slid down in his great chair so that he was
+sitting on the small of his back, had been thinking over his sermon for
+the next Sunday. No one could sit in David's great chair without sliding
+down and down and down into comfort or into extreme discomfort. It had
+taken David a long time to become part of the chair, so that he could
+feel the comfort of utter relaxation of body it demanded. In time the
+chair grew to be a part of the David we all knew. Those of us who knew
+him best can never forget him as he was when he sat in that old chair,
+his feet on the floor, his knees almost as high as his chin, his hands
+loosely folded over his waist, so that his thin, expressive thumbs could
+tap together in, emphasis as he talked, and his head forward so that
+his chin rested on the bosom of his shirt. Slumped down like this in
+the great chair, he talked to us of things we talked of nowhere else. We
+could talk religion with David when he was in his chair quite as if it
+were an interesting subject. Many of us can remember his smile as he
+listened to our feeble objections to his logic, or how he ran his hand
+through his curls and tossed one knee on top of the other when it was
+time to bring the full battery of his mind against us. It was while
+slumped into his great chair that David had most of his famous word
+battles with old Doc Benedict, and there, his fine brow creased, he
+listened when Rose Hinch told of someone in need or in trouble. When we
+happened in and David was out and we waited for him in his study that
+chair was the _emptiest_ chair man ever saw in the world. The hollows
+of the threadbare old green rep always seemed to hunger for David as no
+other chair ever hungered for any other man. No other man or woman ever
+fitted the chair. I always felt like an overturned turtle in it, with my
+neck vainly trying to get my head above the engulfing hollow. Only David
+and little children felt comfortable in the chair, for in it little
+children--David's own or others--could curl up as comfortably as a
+kitten in a rug.
+
+It was out of this chair David scrambled, full of fight, when 'Thusia
+brought him the news that Mack was drunk.
+
+What 'Thusia had to tell David was clear enough and sad enough. From
+his great chair, when David raised his eyes, he could see the Mannings'
+house across the way, white with green blinds, cool in the afternoon
+shadows. Sometimes Amy Manning and sometimes her mother and sometimes
+both sat on the porch, busied with the trifles of needlework women love.
+It was always a pleasant picture, the house framed between the trunks
+of two great maples, the lawn crisply cut and mottled with sunshine and
+shadow, and at one side of the house a spot of geranium glowing red in
+the sun with, at the other side, a mass of shrubbery against which a
+foliage border of red and green fell, in the afternoons, just within the
+shadow and had all the quality of rich Italian brocade.
+
+Sometimes 'Thusia would run across to visit a few minutes with Amy
+Manning, and sometimes Amy--her needlework gathered in her apron--would
+come running across to sit awhile with 'Thusia. The two were very fond.
+'Thusia had reached the age when she was always humorously complaining
+about having to let out the seams of her last year's dresses, and
+Amy was hardly more than a girl, but propinquity or some contrast or
+similarity of disposition had made them the best of friends. Perhaps
+'Thusia had never lost all her girlish qualities, and certainly Amy
+had been something of a woman even as a child. For all the years that
+divided them they were more nearly of an age than many who reckoned from
+the same birth year. Such friendships are far from rare and are often
+the best and most lasting.
+
+David had seen Amy grow; had seen her fall bumping--a little ball of
+white--down the Manning porch steps and had heard (and still heard)
+the low-voiced and long lasting farewells she and Mack exchanged at
+the Mannings' gate, young love making the most of itself, and making
+a twenty-four hour tragedy out of a parting. The girl had been tall at
+fourteen and even then had certain womanly gestures and manners. She had
+always been a sweet girl, frank, gentle, even-tem-pered, with clear eyes
+showing she had a good brain back of their blue. She was always, as
+the saying is in Riverbank, “interested in church.” Her religion was
+something real and vital. She accepted her faith in full and lived it,
+not bothering with the artificial agonies of soul that some youngsters
+find necessary. From a girl of this kind she had grown into a young
+woman, calm, clean, sterling. She had a healthy love of pleasure in any
+of the unforbidden forms, and, before Mack Graham slipped a ring on her
+finger, she liked to have half a dozen young whipper-snappers showing
+attention, quite like any other girl. She even liked, after that, to see
+that two or three of the whipper-snappers were jealous of Mack.
+
+Mack was never jealous and could not be. He was one of the laughing,
+conquering hero kind. Amy was his from the moment he decided she was the
+finest girl in the world; he never considered any rival worth a worry.
+In olden days he would have been a carefree, swashbuckling D'Artagnan
+sort of fellow, and this, in nose-to-grindstone Riverbank, made him a
+great favorite and it led him to consort with a set of young fellows of
+the gayer sort with whom he learned to crook his elbow over a bar and
+continue to crook it until the alcohol had tainted his blood and set up
+its imperative cry for more. When David took up the fight for Mack this
+alcohol yearning had become well intrenched, and the conquering hero
+trait in the young fellow's character made the fight doubly hard, for
+Mack--more than any man I have ever known--believed in himself and that
+he could “stop off short” whenever he really wished.
+
+The thing that, more than all else, kept Mack from rapid ruin was his
+engagement. Love has a certain power, and there are some men it will
+reform or hold from evil, but it could not hold Mack. The yearning for
+alcohol had found its place in his system before Amy had found her place
+in his heart. The very night of his engagement was celebrated in Dan
+Reilly's; Amy's kiss was hardly dry on his lips before he moistened them
+with whisky, and it probably never occurred to him that he was doing
+wrong. Before he had received all the congratulations that were pushed
+over the bar, however, he was sickeningly intoxicated. Amy's father,
+returning home from a late session with a trial balance, ran across Mack
+and two of his companions swaying perilously on the curb of Main Street,
+each maudlinly insisting that he was sober and should see the other two
+safely home. It was ridiculous and laughable, but Mr. Manning did not
+laugh; he knew Amy was more than fond of Mack. He told Amy about Mack
+before she had a good opportunity to tell him of her engagement. This
+was the next morning.
+
+Mack, of course, came to see Amy that evening. In spite of a full day
+spent in trying to remove the traces of the night's spree he showed
+evidences that he had taken one or two drinks to steady his nerves
+before seeing Amy. He was a little too hilarious when he met her at the
+door, not offensive, but too talkative. It was a cruel position for the
+girl. She loved Mack and loved him tremendously, but she had more than
+common sense. She knew she had but one life to live, and she had set her
+ideals of happiness long before. A drunken husband was not one of them.
+
+She talked to Mack. She did not have, to help her, an older woman's
+experience of the world, and she had against her the love that urged
+her to throw herself in Mack's arms and weep away the seriousness of the
+affair. She had against her, too--for it was against her with a man like
+Mack--her overflowing religious eagerness which would have led another
+girl to press the church and prayer upon him as a cure. No doubt it was
+a strange conglomeration of love, religion and common sense she gave
+him, but the steel frame of it all was that she could not marry a man
+who drank. She left no doubt of that.
+
+“Why, that's all right, Amy, that's all right!” Mack said. “I'll quit
+the stuff. I can quit whenever I want to. Last night I just happened to
+meet the boys and I was feeling happy--say, no fellow ever had a bigger
+right to feel happy!--and maybe I took one or two too many. No more for
+little Mack!”
+
+They left it that way and went into the dining room, where Mr. and Mrs.
+Manning were, to announce the engagement formally. It was two months
+before Mack toppled again. This was the first 'Thusia and David knew of
+it. 'Thusia and Amy had been sitting on the Mannings' porch when
+Mack came up. Anyone would have known he was intoxicated, he was so
+intoxicated he swayed. He talked, but his lips refused to fully form the
+words he tried to use. He had come up, he said, to convince the little
+rascal--meaning Amy--that it was all nonsense not to be married right
+away. When he tried to say “nonsense” he said, “nom-nom-nomsemse, all
+nomsemse.”
+
+“Mack and I want to have a talk, 'Thusia,” Amy said, and 'Thusia
+gathered up her sewing and fled to David.
+
+When 'Thusia had told David all she knew, David walked to the window,
+his thin hands clasped behind his back, and looked across toward the
+Mannings'. Amy had taken Mack into the house to hide his shame from
+chance passers-by. For several minutes David stood at the window while
+'Thusia waited. He turned at last.
+
+“It is my fault,” he said. “I should have thought of him.”
+
+That was like David Dean. His shoulders were always overloaded with
+others' burdens, and it was like David to blame himself for having
+overlooked one burden more.
+
+
+
+
+VIII. THE GREATER GOOD
+
+
+MACK was not the only weak creature David was trying to help.
+Helpfulness was his life. I do not want you to think of David as eager
+for overwork, or as eager for greater burdens. He was always loaded down
+with others' fights against poverty, passion and sin because something
+within him always said: “This is one case in which you can be of actual
+help.” Before he was aware he would be enlisted in these individual
+battles, with all the close personal details that made them living
+sorrows.
+
+Inside the broad fight the church was making to strengthen character and
+maintain morality these individual battles were fought. How could David
+stand aloof from the battle of old Mrs. Miggs against poverty, with her
+penchant for spending the alms she received for flummery dress; or
+from the battle of old Wickham Reid against his insane inclination to
+suicide; or from the battles of all the backsliders of one kind and
+another; or from the battle of the Rathgebers against starvation; the
+battle of young Ross Baldwin against the trains of thought that were
+urging him to unbelief; or all the battles against alcohol! These were
+lame dogs David was helping over stiles. There were battles David won in
+an hour; there were other battles that lengthened into sieges, where sin
+and sinners “dug in” and struggled for years.
+
+In some of these 'Thusia could help David, and she did help, most
+willingly, but 'Thusia had her own battles. Like most ministers' wives
+she had a constant battle to make David's inadequate salary meet the
+household expenses. When, after one of the usual church quarrels, those
+in favor of putting the choir in surplices won, 'Thusia was sorry she
+was not in the choir; her worn Sunday gown would not then be a weekly
+humiliation. Her hats, poor things! were problems as difficult to
+finance as a war. The grocer's bill was a monthly catastrophe; “the
+wood is low again, David,” was an announcement 'Thusia felt was almost
+unkind. She spent five times as long turning a dress that was no
+pleasure after it was turned than she should have had to spend getting
+a new one. The lack of a few dollars to “do with” is the greatest waster
+of a faithful home-keeper's time.
+
+The hope of a call to a church that will pay enough to supply those few
+dollars is one many ministers' wives cherish.
+
+David picked up his hat and waited on his own porch until he saw Mack
+come from the Mannings' door; then he crossed the street.
+
+“'Lo, dominie!” Mack said unsteadily. “Little girl's been giving me Hail
+Columbia. She's all right, dominie; fine little girl. I'm ashamed of
+myself. Told you so, didn't I, little girl?”
+
+David put his hand on Mack's shoulder.
+
+“She _is_ a fine girl, Mack,” he said. “There's no finer girl in America
+than Amy. Suppose we take a walk, Mack, a good long walk out into
+the country and tell each other just how fine Amy is.” Mack smiled
+knowingly. He put a hand on David's shoulder, so that the two men stood
+like some living statue of “United we stand.”
+
+“Couldn't tell all about how fine a little girl she is in _one_ walk,”
+ he said.
+
+“Come!” said David.
+
+He put his arm through Mack's, and thus he led him away. The assistance
+was necessary, for Mack was drunker than he had seemed. David led him to
+the country roads by the shortest route, that passing the cemetery, and
+when they were beyond the town he walked Mack hard. He let Mack do the
+talking and kept him talking of Amy, for of what would a lover, drunk
+or sober, rather talk than of his sweetheart! It was dark and long past
+David's supper hour when they reached the town again, and David drew
+Mack into the manse for a “bite.” After they had eaten he led him into
+the study.
+
+Mack was well past the unpleasant stage of his intoxication now, and
+with 'Thusia sewing in her little, low rocker and Mack in a comfortable
+chair and David slumped down in his own great chair, they talked of Amy
+and of a hundred things David knew how to make interesting. It was ten
+when 'Thusia bade them good-night and went out of the study.
+
+“The Mannings are still up,” said David, and Mack turned and looked out
+of the window.
+
+“God, but I am a beast!” said Mack.
+
+“You are worse than that, Mack, because you are a man,” said David.
+
+“Yes, I'm worse than a beast,” said Mack. He meant it. David, deep in
+his chair, his eyes on Mack's face, tapped his thumbs slowly together.
+
+“Mack,” he asked, “just how much of a hold has this drink got on you!”
+
+“Oh, I can stop any time I--”
+
+“Yes, so can Doc Benedict,” said David. “He stops whenever he has had
+his periodical and his nerves stop their howling for the alcohol. I
+don't mean that, Mack. Just how insistent is the wish for the stuff,
+when you haven't had it for a while, if it makes you forget Amy as you
+did to-day!”
+
+“Well, it is pretty insistent,” Mack admitted. “I don't mean to get
+the way I was this afternoon, dominie. Something starts me and I keep
+going.”
+
+David's thumbs tapped more and more slowly.
+
+“You still have the eyes of a man, Mack,” he said, “and you are still
+able to look me in the eyes like a man, Mack,” he said. “We ought to be
+able to beat this thing. Now go over and say good-night to Amy. She'll
+sleep better for seeing you as you are now.”
+
+The next day David learned more, and so did 'Thusia. What David learned
+was that the two months that had elapsed between Mack's engagement spree
+and his next was the longest period the young fellow had been sober for
+some time, and that Mack had already been docketed in the minds of those
+who knew him best as a hard and reckless drinker. It meant the fight
+would be harder and longer than David had hoped. What 'Thusia learned
+was that Amy had had a long talk with Mack after he had left David.
+
+“She did not tell him, David, but she told me, that she could not marry
+him if he let this happen. She can't marry a drunkard; no one would want
+her to; but if she throws him over he will be gone, David. She'll give
+him his chance, and she will help us--or let us help her--but when she
+is sure he is beyond help she will send him away. And when she sends him
+away--”
+
+“If she sends him away one great influence will be lost,” said David.
+“She must not send him away.”
+
+“If he comes to her drunk again,” said 'Thusia, as one who has saved the
+worst tidings until last, “she will have no more to do with him.”
+
+In less than a week Mack fell again, and Amy, her heart well-nigh
+broken, gave him back his ring, and ended the engagement. Then, indeed,
+began the hardest fight David ever made for a man against that man's
+self. There were nights when David walked the streets with Mack until
+the youth fell asleep as he walked, and days when Mack lay half stupid
+in David's great chair while the dominie scribbled his sermon notes at
+the desk beneath the spatter-work motto: “Keep an even mind under all
+circumstances.” Often David and old Doc Benedict sat in the same study
+and discussed Mack. David from the stand of one who wanted to save the
+young fellow, and Benedict as one who knew the alcohol because it had
+conquered him.
+
+“Now, in my case,” the doctor would say, quite as if he were discussing
+another person; and, “but on the other hand I had this gnawing pain in
+my stomach, while--” and so on.
+
+There were weeks when David felt he was making great progress and other
+weeks when he felt he was not holding his own, and some frightful weeks
+when Mack threw everything aside and plunged into unbridled dissipation.
+The periods after these sprees were deceptive. During them Mack seemed
+to want no liquor and vaunted his strength of will. He boasted he would
+never touch another drop.
+
+There were also periods of overwhelming defeat, and periods when Mack
+was never drunk but never sober. Little by little, however, David felt
+he was making progress. It was slow and there were no “Cures” to work
+a sudden change, as there are now, but under the tottering structure of
+Mack's will David was slowly building a foundation of serious thought.
+Mack was changing. His dangerous and illusive bravado was bit by bit
+yielding to a desire to do what David wished.
+
+It was slow work. Rather by instinct than by logic David saw that to
+save Mack he must make Mack like him better than he liked anyone in
+Riverbank. Our David had none of that burly magnetism that draws men in
+a moment; those of us who liked him best were those who had known him
+longest, and he was not the man a youth like Mack would instinctively
+choose as a dearest friend and most frequent companion. In David's mind
+the idea probably formed itself thus: “I must make Mack come to me as
+often as possible,” and, “Mack won't come unless he likes me.” He set
+about making Mack like him, and making him like 'Thusia and little Roger
+and baby Alice, and making him like the manse and all that was in it.
+With Amy turning her face from Mack, and Mack's mother varying between
+shrewish scolding and maudlin tears, and Mack's father wielding no
+weapon but a threat of disinheritance, it became necessary that Mack
+should have someone he wished to please, someone he liked and respected
+and wished to please more than he wished to please his insistent nerves.
+Each touch of eagerness added to Mack's face as he came up the manse
+walk David counted a gain.
+
+And 'Thusia, beside what she did for Mack in making Mack love the manse
+and all those in it, worked with Amy and kept alive the flame of her
+love.
+
+They were dear people, our Dominie Davy and his wife. In time little
+Roger became as eager to see Mack as Mack was to see David, and Mack
+became “Ungel Mack” to the child. The boy would climb the gate and cry,
+“Here cometh Ungel Mack!” with all the eagerness of joyful childhood.
+Sometimes when Mack was drunk, but not too drunk, David would lead Roger
+into the study, and the boy would say, “Poor Ungel Mack, you thick?” It
+all helped.
+
+Together Mack and David made the fight. Amy, according to her light,
+did her part, too. She never fled from David's little porch when she
+happened to be there and saw Mack coming up the street. She always gave
+Mack her hand in frank and friendly manner. She did not let the other
+young fellows pay her attentions. It was as if Mack had never courted
+her; as if they were bound by a friendship that had never ripened into
+anything warmer but that might some day. Mack was fine about it; eager
+as he was to have Amy he held himself in check. Eventually it was a
+great thing for them both; it was as if they were living the difficult
+“getting acquainted” year that follows the honeymoon before the
+honeymoon itself. They got to know each other better, perhaps, than any
+Riverbank lovers had ever known one another.
+
+It was one Sunday afternoon during this stage of Mack's fight, while
+Mack and 'Thusia and Amy were on the porch and David taking his
+between-sermon nap in his great chair, that the great opportunity
+came to David's door. It came in the form of a man of sixty years,
+silk-hatted and frock-coated. He walked slowly up the street from the
+direction of the town, and when he reached David's gate he paused and
+read the number painted on the riser of the porch step, opened the gate
+and entered. He removed his hat and extended his hand to 'Thusia.
+
+“You are Mrs. Dean, I know,” he said, smiling. “My name is Benton, and I
+don't think you know me. Mr. Dean is in?”
+
+There were many men of many kinds came to David's door from one end of
+a year to the other, but never had a man come whose face so quickened
+'Thusia's heart. It was a strongly modeled face and gave an impression
+of power. The nose was too large and the lips were too large, so were
+the brows, so were all the features. It was a face that was too large
+for itself, it left no room for the eyes, which had to peer out as best
+they could from between the brows that crowded them from above, and the
+cheekbones that crowded them from below, but they were kind, keen, sane
+eyes; they were even twinkling eyes. The man was rather too stout and
+his skin was coarse-pored, almost as if pitted. 'Thusia had never seen
+a homelier man, and yet she liked him from the moment he spoke. It was
+partly his voice, full, soft and, in some way, satisfying. She felt he
+was a big man and a good man and an honest man.
+
+“Yes, Mr. Dean is in,” she said. “I think he is napping. If you will
+just rest a minute until I see--”
+
+David, as was his habit when his visitors were unknown to him, came
+to the door. 'Thusia slipped into the kitchen. The day was hot and
+Mr. Benton was hot, and there were lemons and ice in the refrigerator,
+perhaps a pitcher of lemonade all ready to serve with thin cakes.
+
+“Mr. Benton, my wife said, I think!” asked David. “Shall we sit out here
+or go inside!”
+
+“Might go inside,” said the visitor, and David led the way into the
+study. Mr. Benton placed his hat on the floor beside the chair David
+placed for him, unbuttoned his coat and breathed deeply.
+
+“Quite a hill you are perched on here,” he said. “Fat man's misery on a
+day like this. I suppose you saw me in church this morning!”
+
+“Yes. I tried to reach you after the service, but you slipped out.”
+
+“I ran away,” admitted Mr. Benton. “I wanted to think that sermon over
+and cool down after it. It was a good sermon.”
+
+David waited.
+
+“I'm a lawyer,” said Mr. Benton, “and I'm cracked up as quite an orator
+in one way and another, and I know that some of the things that sound
+best hot from the lips don't amount to so much an hour later. That was
+a good sermon, then and now! It was a remarkable sermon. I want you
+to come to Chicago and preach that same sermon to us in the Boulevard
+Church next Sunday, Mr. Dean.”
+
+David, in his great chair, tapped his thumbs together and looked at Mr.
+Benton. He was trying to keep an even mind under circumstances that made
+his pulse beat almost wildly.
+
+“You know now, as well as you ever will, why I'm here, I think,” said
+Mr. Benton. “We are looking for the right man for our church, and I came
+here to hear you. I think you are the man we want. I can almost say
+that if you preach as well for us next Sunday as you did to-day we will
+hardly dare let you come back for your household goods. Matter of fact,
+the man I select is the man we want.”
+
+“I know the church,” said David slowly. “It is a splendid church.”
+
+“It _is_ a good church,” said Mr. Benton. “It is a strong church and
+a large church. It is a church that needs a young man and a church in
+which you will have opportunity for the greater good a man such as you
+always desires. I jotted down a few figures and so on--”
+
+Holding the paper in his hand Mr. Benton read the figures; figures of
+membership, average attendance morning and evening, stipend, growth,
+details even to the number of rooms in the manse and what the rooms
+were.
+
+“The church pays the salary of the secretary,” he added.
+
+David's thumbs were pressed close together. His mind passed in rapid
+review the patched breeches little Roger wore during the week, the
+pitiful hat 'Thusia tried to make respectable, her oft-remodeled gowns.
+It was comfort to the verge of luxury Mr. Benton was offering, as
+compared with Riverbank. It was more than this: it was a broader field,
+a greater chance.
+
+Slumped down in his great chair, his eyes closed, David thought. It
+would mean freedom from the petty quarrels that vexed the church at
+Riverbank; it would mean freedom from cares of money. Out of the liberal
+stipend Mr. Benton had mentioned they might even put aside a goodly bit.
+It would mean he could start anew with a clean slate and be rid of the
+stupid interference of all the Hardcome and Grimsby tribe. 'Thusia would
+be with him, and Rose Hinch--who had become, in a way, a lay sister of
+good works, helping him with his charities--could be induced to follow
+him. Then he thought of old Mrs. Miggs, and of Wickham Reid, of the
+Rathgebers and Ross Baldwin, and all those whose fight he was fighting
+in Riverbank. And Mack! What would become of Mack!
+
+Through the window he heard the voices of Mack and Amy.
+
+“It is quite unexpected,” David said, opening his eyes. “I'll have
+to--you have no objection to my speaking to my wife?”
+
+The tinkling of ice in a pitcher sounded at the door.
+
+“By all means, speak to her,” said Mr. Benton, and as 'Thusia tapped
+David arose and opened the door. 'Thusia entered.
+
+“'Thusia,” David said, “Brother Benton is from the Boulevard Church
+in Chicago. He wants me to preach there next Sabbath and, if the
+congregation is satisfied, I may be offered the pulpit.” The color
+slowly mounted from 'Thusia's throat to her brow. She stood holding the
+small tin tray, and the glasses trembled against the pitcher. It did not
+need the figures Mr. Benton reread to tell 'Thusia all the opportunity
+meant. Mr. Benton ceased, and still 'Thusia stood holding the tray. Her
+eyes left Mr. Benton's uncouth face and found David's eyes.
+
+“It--it's wonderful, David,” she said steadily, “but of course there's
+Mack--and Amy!”
+
+So Mr. Benton and the great opportunity went back to Chicago, after a
+sip or two of 'Thusia's lemonade, and David dropped back into his great
+chair and his old life of helpfulness, and 'Thusia went out on the porch
+and smiled at Amy, and they all had lemonade.
+
+From the day Mr. Benton entered David's door Mack never touched the
+liquor again. It was a year before Amy felt sure enough to let him slip
+the ring on her finger again, but it was as if David's sacrifice had
+worked the final cure. Perhaps it did. Perhaps Mack, hearing, as all of
+us did, of the great chance David had put aside, guessed what none of us
+guessed--that it was for him David remained in Riverbank. Perhaps that
+was why, when our church wanted to throw David aside in his old age like
+a worn-out shoe, Mack Graham fought so hard and successfully to secure
+for David the honorary title and the pittance.
+
+
+
+
+IX. LUCILLE HARDCOME
+
+
+IN spite of all his efforts David could not shake off his pitiful little
+burden of debt. After little Alice 'Thusia bore him two more children;
+they died before the month, and the last left 'Thusia an invalid, and
+even Doctor Benedict lacked the skill to aid her. A maid--hired girl,
+we called them in Riverbank--became a necessity. The church did what it
+thought it could, gave David a few more dollars yearly, and sympathized
+with him.
+
+To David the misfortune of 'Thusia's invalidism came so gradually
+that he felt the weight of it bit by bit and not as a single great
+catastrophe. She was “not herself” and then “not quite well” and then,
+before he was fully aware, he was happy when she had a “good” day.
+
+'Thusia did not complain. With her whole heart she wished she was well
+and strong, but she did not allow her troubles to sour her mind or
+heart. Mary Derling and Rose Hinch came oftener to see her. 'Thusia,
+unable to do her own housework, had more time to use her hands. Once,
+when some petty bill worried David, she asked if she could not take
+in sewing, but David would not hear of it. There are some things a
+dominie's wife cannot be allowed to do to help her husband. About this
+time 'Thusia did much sewing for the poor, who probably worried less
+over their finances than David worried over his, and who, as likely as
+not, criticized the stitches 'Thusia took with such loving good will.
+
+David was then a fine figure of a man in the forties. Always slender, he
+reached his greatest weight then; a little later worry and work wore
+him down again. If his kindly cheerfulness was at all forced we never
+guessed it. He was the same big-hearted, friendly Davy he had always
+been, better because more mature. As a preacher he was then at his best.
+It was at this time Lucille Hardcome's life first brought her in touch
+with David.
+
+Lucille was a widow. Seth Hardcome and his wife, Ellen, had long since
+left our church in a huff, going to another congregation and staying
+there. Lucille was, in some sort, Seth's cousin-in-law, however that may
+be. She came to Riverbank jingling golden bracelets and rustling silken
+garments, and for a while attended services with Seth and his wife, but
+something did not suit her and she came to us. We counted her a great
+acquisition, for she had taken the old Ware house on the hill--one of
+the few big “mansions” the town boasted.
+
+In a few weeks after her arrival Lucille Hardcome was well known in
+Riverbank. She had money. Her husband--and Riverbank never knew anything
+else about him---had been an old man when she married him. He had died
+within the year. No doubt, having had that length of time in which to
+become acquainted with Lucille's vagaries, he was willing enough to
+go his way. Within a month after she had installed herself in the Ware
+house Lucille had her “hired man”--they were not called “coachmen”
+ until Lucille came to Riverbank--and a fine team of blacks. Her low-hung
+carriage was for many years thereafter a common sight in Riverbank. As
+Lucille furnished it her house seemed to us palatial in its elegance.
+It overpowered those who saw its interior; she certainly managed to get
+everything into the rooms that they would hold--even to a grand piano
+and a huge gilded harp on which she played with a great show of plump
+arms. All this mass of furnishings and bric-à-brac was without taste,
+but to Riverbank it was impressive. She had, I remember, a huge cuckoo
+clock she had bought in Switzerland, but which, being of unvarnished
+wood, did not suit her taste, so she had it gilded, and hung it against
+a plaque of maroon velvet. She painted a little, on china, on velvet and
+on canvas, and her rooms soon held a hundred examples of her work, all
+bad. Unless you were nearsighted, however, you could tell her roses from
+her landscapes even from across the room, for she painted large. It was
+the day of china plaques, and Lucille had the largest china plaque in
+Riverbank. It was three feet across. It was much coveted.
+
+On her body she crowded clothes as she crowded her house with
+furnishings. She was permanently overdressed. She was of impressive size
+and she made herself larger with ruffles and frills. Her hair was always
+overdone--she must have spent hours on it--and if a single hair managed
+to exist unwaved, uncurled or untwisted it was not Lucille's fault. Yet
+somehow she managed to make all this flummery and curliness impressive;
+in her heart she hoped the adjective “queenly” was applied to her,
+and it was! That was before the days of women's clubs, but Lucille had
+picked up quite a mass of impressive misinformation on books, painting
+and like subjects. In Riverbank she was able to make this tell.
+
+With all this she was politely overbearing. She let people know she
+wanted to have her way--and then took it! From the first she pushed her
+way into prominence in church matters, choosing the Sunday school as
+the door. The Sunday school fell entirely under her sway in a very short
+time, partly because Mrs. Prell, the wife of the superintendent, had
+social ambitions, and urged Mr. Prell to second Lucille's wishes, and
+partly through Lucille's mere desire to lead. She began as leader of the
+simple Sunday school music, standing just under the pulpit and beating
+out the time of
+
+     “Little children, little children,
+     Who love their Redeemer--”
+
+with an arm that jingled with bracelets as her horses' bridles jingled
+with silver-plated chains.
+
+Her knowledge of music was slight--she could just about pick out a tune
+on her harp by note--but she called in Professor Schwerl and made him
+pound further knowledge into her head. The hot-tempered old German did
+it. He swore at her, got red in the face, perspired. It was like pouring
+water on a duck's back, but some drops clung between the feathers, and
+Lucille knew how to make a drop do duty as a pailful. She took charge of
+the church music, reorganized the choir, and made the church think the
+new music was much better, than the old.
+
+And so it was. She added Professor Schwerl and his violin to the organ.
+Theoretically this was to increase the volume of sweet sounds; in effect
+it made old Schwerl the hidden director of the choir, with Lucille as
+the jingling, rustling figurehead. So, step by step, Lucille became a
+real power in the church. The trustees and elders had little faith in
+her wisdom; they had immense respect for her ability to have her own
+way, whether it was right or wrong.
+
+Lucille, having won her place in the church, set about creating a
+“salon.” Her first idea was to make her parlor the gathering place of
+all the wit and wisdom of Riverbank, as Madame de Staël made her salon
+the gathering place of the wit and wisdom of Paris. Perhaps nothing
+gives a better insight into the character of Lucille than this:
+her attempt to create a salon--of which she should be the star--in
+Riverbank. She soon found that the wit and wisdom of our small Iowa town
+was not willing to sit in a parlor and talk about Michael Angelo. The
+women were abashed before the culture they imagined Lucille to have.
+The men simply did not come. Not to be defeated, Lucille organized a
+“literary society.” By including only a few of her church acquaintances
+she gave the suggestion that the organization was “exclusive.” By
+setting as the first topic the poems of Matthew Arnold--then hardly
+heard of in Riverbank--she suggested that the society was to be erudite.
+The combination did all she had hoped. Admission to Lucille's literary
+society became Riverbank's most prized social plum.
+
+Few in Riverbank had any real affection for Lucille, but affection was
+not what she sought. She wanted prominence and power, and even the
+men who had scorned her salon idea soon found she had become, in some
+mysterious way, an “influence.” The State senator, when he came to
+Riverbank, always “put up” at Lucille's mansion instead of at a hotel as
+formerly. When the men of the town wished signatures to a petition,
+or money subscriptions to any promotion scheme--such as the new street
+railway--the first thought was: “Get Lucille Hardcome to take it up;
+she'll put it through.” In such affairs she did not bother with the
+lesser names; some fifteen or twenty of the “big” men she would write on
+her list and for a few days her blacks and her low-hung carriage would
+be seen standing in front of prominent doors, and Lucille would have
+secured all, or nearly all, the signatures she sought.
+
+At first Lucille paid little attention to David. She treated him much as
+she treated the colorless Mr. Prell, _our_ Sunday school superintendent:
+as if he were a useful but unimportant church attachment, but otherwise
+not amounting to much. It was not until the affair of the church
+organist showed her that David was a worthy antagonist that Lucille
+thought of David as other than a sort of elevated hired man.
+
+Far back in the days when David came to Riverbank, Miss Hurley (Miss
+Jane Hurley, not Miss Mary) had volunteered to play the organ when Mrs.
+Dougal gave it up because of the coming of the twins. That must have
+been before the war; and the organ was a queer little box of a thing
+that could be carried about with little trouble. It was hardly better
+than a pitch pipe. It served to set the congregation on (or off) the
+key, and was immediately lost in the rough bass and shrill treble of
+the congregational vocal efforts. Later, when the Hardcomes came to
+Riverbank and Ellen Hardcome's really excellent soprano suggested a
+quartet choir, the “new” organ had been bought. It was thought to be a
+splendid instrument. In appearance it was a sublimated parlor organ,
+a black walnut affair that had Gothic aspirations and arose in
+unaccountable spires and points. We Presbyterians were properly proud of
+it. With our choir of four, our new organ and Miss Hurley learning a
+new voluntary or offertory every month or so, we felt we had reached the
+acme in music. We used to gather around Miss Hurley after one of her
+new “pieces” and congratulate her, quite as we gathered around David and
+congratulated him when he gave us a sermon we liked especially well.
+
+The Episcopalians gave us our first shock when they built their little
+church--spireless, indeed, so that their bell had to be set on a
+scaffold in the back yard--but with a pipe organ actually built into the
+church. We figured that seven, at least, of our congregation went over
+to the Episcopalians on account of the pipe organ. The Methodists
+were but a year or two later. I do not remember whether the
+Congregationalists were a year before or a year after the Methodists,
+but the net result was that we Presbyterians and the United Brethren
+were the last to lag along, and the United Brethren had neither our size
+nor wealth. Not that our wealth was much to brag of.
+
+After her typhoid Ellen Hardcome's voice broke--the disease “settled in
+her throat,” as we said then--and she stepped out of the choir to
+make way for little Mollie Mitchell, who sang like a bird and had a
+disposition like one of Satan's imps. Hardly had Lucille Hardcome taken
+charge of our church music than she began her campaign for a pipe organ.
+By that time the “new” organ was the “old” organ and actually worse
+than the old “old” organ had ever been. It was in the habit of emitting
+occasional uncalled-for groans and squeaks and at times all its efforts
+were accompanied by a growl like the drone of a bagpipe. The blind piano
+tuner had long since refused to have anything more to do with it, and
+Merkle, the local gun and lock smith, tinkered it nearly every week. It
+was comical to see old Schwerl roll his eyes in agony as he played his
+violin beside it.
+
+As Merkle said, repairing musical instruments was not his business, and
+he had to “study her up from the ground.” He did his best, but probably
+the logic of his repair work was based on a wrong premise. We never
+knew, when Merkle entered the church on a Saturday to correct the
+trouble that evolved during Friday night's choir practice, what the old
+black walnut monstrosity would do on Sunday.
+
+All through this period, as through her struggles with the old “old”
+ organ, Miss Hurley labored patiently. “I couldn't do so and so,” old
+Merkle used to tell her, “so you want to look out and not do so and so.”
+ Perhaps it meant she must pump with one foot, or not touch some three or
+four of the “stops.” She did her best and, but for the rankling thought
+that the other churches were listening to glorious pipe organ strains, I
+dare say we would have been satisfied well enough. I always loved to
+see the gentle little lady seat herself on the narrow bench, arrange her
+skirts, place her music on the rack and then look up to catch the back
+of Dominie Dean's curly-haired head in her little mirror.
+
+When Lucille Hardcome announced that she just couldn't stand the squeaky
+old organ any longer and that the church must have a pipe organ if she
+had to work night and day for it, we knew the church would have a pipe
+organ, for Lucille--as a rule--got whatever she set her heart on.
+
+Lucille's announcement threw little Miss Jane into a flutter of
+excitement. It was as if someone gave a gray wren a thimbleful of
+champagne. Miss Jane was all chirps of joy and tremblings of the hand.
+She hardly knew whether to be jauntily joyous or crushed with fear. Her
+eyes were unwontedly bright, and her cheeks, which had not glowed for
+years, burned red. The very Friday night that Lucille condemned the
+old organ and proclaimed a new one Miss Jane, walking beside David Dean
+(although she felt more like skipping for joy), asked David a daring
+question.
+
+“Won't it be wonderful to have a real organ--a pipe organ!” she
+exclaimed. “It means so much in the musical service, Mr. Dean. I try to
+make the old organ praise the Lord but--of course I don't mean anything
+I shouldn't--but sometimes I think there is no praise left in the old
+thing! I can do so much more if we have a pipe organ!”
+
+“I imagine you sometimes think the Old Harry is in the old walnut case,
+Miss Jane,” said David.
+
+“Oh, I would never think that!” cried Miss Jane, and then she laughed
+a shamed little laugh. “That is just what sister Mary said last Sunday
+when the bass growled so!”
+
+She walked a few yards in silence, nerving herself to ask the question.
+
+“Mr. Dean,” she said, “do you think it would be all right--do you think
+it would be proper--if I asked Mademoiselle Moran to give me a few
+lessons?”
+
+She almost held her breath waiting for David's answer. It seemed to her,
+after the question had left her mouth, that it had been a bold, almost
+brazen, thing to ask David. It seemed almost shameful to ask the dominie
+such a question, for, you understand, Mademoiselle Moran was a Catholic,
+and not only a Catholic but the niece of Father Moran, the priest, and
+his housekeeper, and the organist of St. Bridget's. The lessons would
+mean that Miss Jane must go to St. Bridget's; they would be given on the
+great organ there, with the image of the Virgin, and of St. Bridget,
+and the gaunt crucifix, and the pictures portraying the Stations of the
+Cross, and the confessionals, and all else, close at hand. To ask the
+dominie if one might voluntarily venture into the midst of all that!
+
+“Have you spoken to her yet?” asked David, surprisingly unshocked.
+
+“No! Oh, no! I would not until I had asked you, of course!” gasped Miss
+Jane. “Why, I haven't had time! I only knew we were going to have a pipe
+organ this evening!”
+
+“Perhaps you had better let me arrange it,” said David. “I think perhaps
+Doctor Benedict can manage it, although Mademoiselle is giving up
+her pupils, Benedict says. Father Moran is worried about her health;
+Benedict says Mademoiselle is trying to do too much. She is giving
+up all but her two or three most promising pupils. But in a case like
+this--Shall I speak to Benedict?”
+
+“Oh, will you? Will you?” cried little Miss Jane ecstatically. “Oh, if
+you will!”
+
+David smiled in the darkness. But a day or two before, when Doc Benedict
+had dropped into the manse to sit awhile in David's study under the
+motto “Keep an even mind under all circumstances,” David had scolded him
+whimsically for unfaithfulness.
+
+“I don't see you once in a blue moon any more, Benedict,” he had said.
+“I grow stale for someone to wrangle with. You're a false and fickle
+friend. Who is your latest passion? Father Moran?”
+
+“Don't you say anything against Father Moran!” Benedict threatened.
+“It's a pity you're not both Presbyterians, or both Catholics, Davy.
+You'd love each other. You'd have some beautiful fights. I can't hold
+my own against him; he's too much for me. He's a fine old man, Davy,” he
+added, and then, smiling, “and he knows good sherry and good cigars.”
+
+“What do you talk about, over your good sherry and good cigars?” asked
+David.
+
+“Last night,” said Benedict, “it was music. He had me there, Davy. No
+man has a right to know as much about as many things as Father Moran
+knows. Of course, if I had a niece like Mademoiselle I might know about
+Beethoven and Chopin and all those fellows. He scolded me about our
+church music. I went for him, of course, on that; bragged about our
+choir. 'Ah, yes I' he smiled through that thick, brown beard of his;
+'and I 'ave heard of your organ!' He gave me an imitation of it through
+his nose. Then he called Mademoiselle and took me into the church and
+made her play a thing or two--an 'Elevation' and an 'Ave Maria.' He had
+me, all right, Davy. It was holy music, Davy!”
+
+So David, remembering, spoke to Benedict about Miss Jane's desire, and
+Benedict spoke to Father Moran. The old doctor knew just how to handle
+the good-natured priest, whose eyes were deep in crow's-feet from
+countless quizzical smiles.
+
+“Why, Father, you yourself were howling and complaining about our church
+music the other night! Scolding me, you were. And now I give you a
+chance to better the thing you scolded me about, and you hesitate! Oh,
+tut! about Mademoiselle's health! Let her give up another of her fancy,
+arts-and-graces pupils. I prescribe Miss Hurley for Mademoiselle's
+health. And don't you dare go against her physician's orders!”
+
+Father Moran chuckled in his black beard and his eyes twinkled. He loved
+to have anyone pretend to bulldoze him; he was a beloved autocrat among
+his own people.
+
+“You're afraid!” declared Benedict. “You're afraid that when we get our
+new organ and Miss Hurley learns to play it your Mademoiselle will be
+overshadowed. We'll show you!”
+
+“Afraid!” chuckled Father Moran. “You heard Mademoiselle play, and
+you say I am afraid! _Bon!_ Ex-cellent! Come, we will interview
+Mademoiselle!”
+
+So it was arranged. Mademoiselle would take no remuneration. She patted
+little Miss Hurley on the thin shoulder and smiled, but she would not
+hear of payment.
+
+“N', no!” she declared. “I teach you because I like you, because I like
+all praise music shall be good music. N', no! We will not think about
+money; we will think about great, grand music. You will be my leetle St.
+Cecilia; yes?” Not until she had consulted David, and had been assured
+that accepting such a favor from the niece of the priest was not at
+all wrong, would Miss Hurley agree. Then the lessons began, Miss Hurley
+always “my leetle St. Cecilia” to Mademoiselle. They were a strongly
+contrasted pair: Mademoiselle Moran stout, black-haired, with powerful
+arms and fingers; Miss Hurley a mere wisp of humanity, hair already
+gray, and with scarce strength to handle the stops and keys.
+
+When first she entered the huge St. Bridget's Miss Hurley cringed, as if
+she entered a forbidden place. The great stained windows permitted but
+little light to enter; here and there some woman knelt low on the floor,
+crossing herself. Mademoiselle walked to the organ loft with a brisk,
+businesslike tread and Miss Hurley followed her timidly. From somewhere
+Father Moran appeared, smiling, and patted Miss Hurley's shoulder. No
+man had patted Miss Hurley's shoulder for many years, but she was far
+from resenting it. It was like a good wish. Then Mademoiselle reached up
+and drew the soft green curtains across the front of the organ loft and
+lo! they were alone. The lesson began.
+
+It needed but that one first lesson to tell Mademoiselle that her
+“leetle St. Cecilia” would never play “great, grand music” on a
+large pipe organ. It was as if you were to undertake to teach a child
+trigonometry and discovered he did not know the multiplication table
+beyond seven times five. Miss Hurley hardly knew the rudiments of music;
+harmony, thoroughbass and all the deeper things, that Mademoiselle had
+learned so long ago that they were part of her nature now, were absolute
+Greek to Miss Hurley. But, worse than all this, Miss Hurley had not the
+physique of an organist. She was physically inadequate.
+
+Such news invariably leaks out. Long before Lucille Hardcome had managed
+to coax the pipe organ out of Sam Wiggett's purse it was known that
+Miss Hurley was “taking lessons” from Mademoiselle and that she was
+not strong enough to play a pipe organ properly. For her part, had Miss
+Hurley been any other person, Mademoiselle would have thrown up her
+hands and turned her back on the impossible task, but she liked Miss
+Jane sincerely. I think she loved the little old maid. It must be
+remembered that St. Bridget's was Irish and in those days many of the
+Irish in Riverbank were fresh from the peat bogs and potato fields, and
+Mademoiselle, before coming to care for her uncle's house, had lived in
+the midst of France's best. It is no wonder she craved even such crambs
+of culture as Miss Hurley had gathered or that she loved the little
+woman. In return she gave Miss Jane all she could.
+
+There were intricacies of stops and keys, foot pedaling and fingering,
+that must be explained and practiced, but Mademoiselle early told Miss
+Hurley:
+
+“St. Cecilia, you are not, remembair, the grand organist; you are
+the sweet organist. For me”--she made the organ boom with a tumult of
+sound--“for me, yes! I am beeg and strong. But, for you”--she played
+some deliciously dainty bit--“because you are gentle and sweet!”
+
+And all the while Miss Jane and Mademoiselle were having their little
+love affair and their struggles with stops and pedals and keys, behind
+the green curtain of St. Bridget's organ loft, Lucille Hardcome was
+bringing all her diplomacy to bear against old Sam Wiggett's pocket. For
+her own part she made a direct assault: “Mr. Wiggett, you're going to
+give us a pipe organ!” She kept this up day in and day out: “Have you
+decided to give us that pipe organ?” and, “I haven't seen the pipe organ
+you are going to give us. Where is it?” Old Wiggett, who liked Lucille,
+chuckled. Perhaps he knew from the first that he would give the
+organ. Lucille set his daughter, Mary Derling, to coaxing, and primed
+unsuspecting old ladies to speak to Mr. Wiggett as if the organ was a
+certainty. She had Mort Walsh, the architect, prepare a plan for taking
+out a portion of the rear wall of the church without disturbing the
+regular services. She took a group of ladies to Derlingport to hear the
+pipe organ in the Presbyterian Church there. They returned enthusiastic
+advocates of an organ for our church, and Lucille, knowing Sam Wiggett,
+and sure the old fellow would love to have his name attached forever to
+some one big thing in the church, set the ladies to raising money for a
+pipe organ. This was a hopeless task and Lucille knew it. It was done to
+frighten Mr. Wiggett and make him hurry with his gift, lest he lose the
+opportunity.
+
+One result of the trip to Derlingport can be stated in the words of
+Mrs. Peter Minch, uttered as she came down the steps of the Derlingport
+church:
+
+“Well, Lucille, if we have an organ like that we will have to have more
+of an organist than Jane Hurley!”
+
+“Of course!” Lucille had said. “Jane Hurley and a pipe organ would be
+ridiculous!”
+
+So this was added to David's worries. The choir of four and Lucille--as
+musical dictator of the church--spoke to David almost immediately about
+the retirement of Miss Hurley. It would be better to say perhaps, that
+they spoke to him about the manner in which money could be raised to
+pay a satisfactory organist. They did not consider Miss Hurley as a
+possibility at all. She had done well enough with the old organ, and it
+had been pleasant for her, and well for the church, that she had been
+permitted to play the squeaky old instrument without pay, but she simply
+would not do when it came to the new organ. David listened, his head
+resting in his hand and one long finger touching his temple. He saw at
+once that a quarrel was in the air.
+
+“You did not know,” he asked, “that Miss Hurley has been taking lessons
+from Mademoiselle Moran for a month or more!”
+
+“Oh, that!” said Lucille. “That's nonsense! If she wants to play
+'Onward, Christian Soldiers' for the Sunday school, I don't object; but
+church music! We have heard the organist at Derlingport!”
+
+“I think,” said David, “that for a while at least, if we get a pipe
+organ, Miss Hurley should be our organist. She is looking forward to it.
+She is taking lessons with that in view!”
+
+Lucille said nothing, but in her eyes David saw the resolve to be rid of
+Miss Hurley.
+
+“Miss Jane understands, I think,” David said, “that she is to continue
+as our organist. At no advance in salary,” he smiled.
+
+Lucille closed her mouth firmly. As clearly as if she had spoken, David
+read in her face: “Well, if that's who is to play the pipe organ, I
+shan't try to get one!” He did not wait for her to speak.
+
+“I feel,” he said, “that if Miss Hurley is to be thrown out after
+so many years of patient and faithful struggling with the miserable
+instruments she has had to do with, it would be better to let the whole
+idea of having a pipe organ drop. At any rate, the chance of getting one
+seems small.”
+
+“Oh, we're going to have one!” exclaimed Lucille, caught in the trap he
+had prepared for her spirit of opposition. “I get what I go after, Mr.
+Dean.”
+
+
+
+
+X. LUCILLE DISCOVERS DAVID
+
+
+IT was no new thing for David to feel the opposition of his choir;
+indeed, is not the attitude of minister and choir in many churches
+usually that of armed neutrality? How many ministers would drop dead
+if all the bitterness that is put into some anthems could kill! To the
+minister the choir is often a body of unruly artistic temperaments
+bent on mere secular display of its musical talents; to the choir the
+minister is a crass utilitarian, ignorant in all that relates to good
+music, and stubbornly insisting that the musical program for each
+day shall be twisted to illustrate some point in his sermon. To some
+ministers it has seemed that eternal vigilance alone prevented the choir
+from singing the latest “Gem from Comic Opera”; some choirs have felt
+that unless they battled strenuously they would be tied down to “Old
+Hundred” and “Blest Be the Tie that Binds,” by a minister who did not
+know one note from another. How many ministers have, early in November,
+begun to dread the inevitable quarrel over the choice of Christmas
+music!
+
+Lucille Hardcome was a large woman and much given to violent colors,
+but, to do her justice, she managed them with a _chic_ that put them
+above any question of mere good taste. She clashed a green and purple
+together, and evolved something that was “style” and that had to be
+recognized as “style.” In a day when women were wearing gray and
+black striped silks, as they were then, Lucille would concoct with
+her dressmaker something in orange and black, throw in a bow or two of
+cerulean blue, and appear well dressed. She could wear a dozen jangling
+bracelets on her plump arm and leave the impression that she was not
+overornamented, but ultrafashionable. You would have said, to see her
+among the less violently garbed women of the church, that she was one
+who would win only by bold thrusts. On the contrary, she could be a wily
+diplomatist.
+
+Just as old Sam Wiggett received from unexpected quarters questions
+regarding the pipe organ, so David began to hear questions regarding the
+organist. Some asked him eagerly if it were true an organist was to be
+brought from Chicago; some asked if it were true that Miss Hurley had
+refused to play the big new organ. Presently he heard the name of the
+young man who was to be brought from Chicago to supplant Miss Hurley;
+then that the young man was to have a position in Sam Wiggett's office
+if he couldn't get into Schultz' music store.
+
+It was soon after the arrangements for the purchase of the pipe organ
+had been made (Sam Wiggett giving in at last) that Miss Jane herself
+came to David. She had been ill two days, confined to her bed, although
+she did not tell David so. Partly, no doubt, her little breakdown had
+come because of the overhard work she was doing with Mademoiselle,
+but mainly it had been the shock of the word that she was to be pushed
+aside. Her disappointment had been overwhelming, for little Miss Jane
+had coveted with all her heart the joy of playing the great, new organ.
+The news that another was to be organist came like the blow of a brutal
+fist between her eyes, and she went down. For two days she fought
+against what she felt must be her great selfishness and then, still weak
+but ready to do what she felt was her duty, she went to David. 'Thusia,
+herself weak, led her to David's study door and left her there. David
+let her enter and closed the door after her. He placed a chair for her.
+The light fell on her face, and as he saw the marks her struggle had
+left there he threw up his head and drew a deep breath. All the fight
+there was in him surged up, and he cast his eyes at the spatter-work
+motto above his desk before he dared speak. His gray eyes glowed cold
+fire.
+
+“Not on your own account, but on mine,” he said, “you will go on just
+as you have been going, Miss Jane Hurley! You are making some progress
+under Mademoiselle Moran!”
+
+“Why--yes--yes--” Miss Jane stammered, twisting her handkerchief,
+“but--”
+
+“Then you are all the organist the church wants or needs or shall have,
+unless it wants and needs and has a new dominie! I dare say we can
+manage to praise the Lord with your fingers and soul quite as well as
+with Samuel Wiggett's money and Lucille Hardcome's ambition.”
+
+“But I can't!” said Miss Jane. “I can't, when they all want a new
+organist; they'll hate me. You don't know, Mr. Dean, what it would be to
+sit there and feel their hate against my back. You'll think I'm foolish,
+but if I could face them it would be different; but to sit there and try
+to play when everyone in the church doesn't want me, and to feel every
+eye behind me hostile! I can't, Mr. Dean!”
+
+David opened the study door.
+
+“'Thusia!” he called, and his wife answered. “Who do you want as your
+organist!” he called. “Why, Miss Jane, of course!” 'Thusia replied.
+“There's one who will not look hatred at your back,” said David. “And
+I'm two. And I can take little Roger to church, and that will be three.
+And I dare say we can find others. 'Thusia should know. Who does Mrs.
+Merriwether want, Thusia!” he called.
+
+“She wants Miss Jane,” said 'Thusia promptly. They joined 'Thusia where
+she lay on her couch. “Are you worried about what Lucille has been
+suggesting, Miss Hurley! Dear me! you mustn't let anything like that
+worry you! Why, someone always wants something else. If David and I
+worried about what everyone wants we would do nothing but worry!”
+
+“But Mr. Wiggett is giving the organ, and Lucille really got it for the
+church--” Miss Hurley faltered.
+
+“I know,” said 'Thusia, “but David wants you to be the organist. That is
+both sides and the middle of the matter for me. David always knows what
+is best!”
+
+“So, you see,” said David smiling, “we've had our little tempest in a
+teapot for nothing. 'Thusia, have you a teapot with something other than
+tempests in it? A cup might refresh Miss Jane.”
+
+Her talk with 'Thusia did more than anything David could have said,
+perhaps, to convince Miss Jane that she need not bury her fond desire,
+for 'Thusia could talk as one woman talks to another. As she talked Miss
+Jane saw things as they were, the great majority of the congregation
+wishing to retain Miss Jane, with but a few of the richer and
+display-loving wanting anything else. 'Thusia was able to convey this
+without saying it. She made it felt, as a woman can when she chooses. A
+name here, a name there, an incidental mention of Lucille's unfortunate
+attempt to put her coachman in livery, and Miss Jane saw the church
+as it was--a few moneyed “pushers” and the body of silent, sincere
+worshipers. More than all else 'Thusia herself seemed to embody the
+spirit of the congregation. It suddenly occurred to Miss Jane that,
+after all, the quiet people who were her friends were the real church.
+And this was true. She left quite at peace with the idea that she was to
+play the new organ when it was installed.
+
+And then David began his fight for Miss Jane, which became a fight
+against Lucille Hardcome. Lucille fought her battle well, but the odds
+were against her. As against the few who wanted a hired organist at
+any price there were an equal few who still questioned the propriety of
+having a new organ at all. Against her were still others who would have
+been with her had she and her warmest supporters not so often tried
+to “run” everything connected with the church, but the overwhelming
+sentiment was that as Miss Jane was “taking lessons” from the best
+organist in Riverbank, and as Miss Jane had always been organist, and as
+hiring one would be an added expense, Miss Jane ought to stay, at least
+until it was quite evident that she would not do at all. Even Professor
+Schwerl told David, albeit secretly, that he was for Miss Jane, his
+theory being that it was better to hear a canary bird pipe prettily than
+to listen to any half-baked virtuoso Lucille was likely to secure.
+
+Thus it came to the night before the day when Professor Hedden, coming
+from a great city, was to introduce the congregation to its new organ.
+That afternoon Mademoiselle had given Miss Jane a final lesson--final
+with the promise of more later--and had kissed her cheek. Father Moran
+had patted her shoulder, too, wishing her, in his quaint English, good
+success, offering her a glass of sherry, which of course she declined,
+making him laugh joyously as he always did at “these Peelgrims Fathers,”
+ as he good-naturedly called those he considered puritanical. Miss Jane,
+coming straight from St. Bridget's, had entered the church and had
+tried the great, new, splendid organ. She was a little afraid of it; she
+trembled when she pulled out the first stops and heard the first notes
+answer her fingers on the keys. Then she grew bolder; she tried a simple
+hymn and forgot herself, and by the time twilight came she was not
+afraid at all. She left the church uplifted and happy of heart. She told
+Miss Mary, when she reached home, that she believed she would do quite
+well.
+
+The evening trial left her in trembling fear again. It was well enough
+to assure herself that no one in America could play as Professor Hedden
+played; that he was our one great master; but she feared what would
+be thought of her playing after the congregation had had such music as
+Professor Hedden's as a first taste.
+
+A dozen or more fortunate hearers made up the little audience at the
+impromptu trial. They were Sam Wiggett and Mary Derling (who had had
+a little dinner for Professor Hedden), the four members of the choir,
+Lucille Hardcome, Miss Hurley, David and 'Thusia, two friends Lucille
+had invited and Schwerl.
+
+The new organ was a magnificent instrument. Behind the pulpit and the
+choir stall the great pipes arose in a convex semicircle as typical of
+aspiring praise as any Gothic cathedral, and when, Saturday evening,
+Professor Hedden seated himself on the player's bench and, after resting
+his hands for a moment on the keyboard, plunged into some tremendous
+“voluntary” of his own composition, the mountains and the ocean and all
+the wild winds of Heaven seemed to join in one great burst of gigantic
+harmony. It seemed then to David Dean that the organ pipes should
+have been painted in glorious gold and all the triumphant hues of a
+magnificent sunrise instead of the fiat terra cotta and moss green that
+had been chosen as harmonizing with the church interior.
+
+Presently the wild tumult of sound softened to the sighing of a breeze
+through the pine trees, to the rippling of a brook, to the croon of a
+mother over a babe. David held his breath as the crooning died, softer
+and softer, until he saw the mother place the sleeping child in its
+crib, and when the last faint note died into silence there were tears in
+his eyes. This was music! It was such music as Riverbank had never heard
+before!
+
+“This is another of my own,” said Professor Hedden and the organ began
+to laugh like nymphs at play in a green, sunny field--tricksy laughter
+that made the heart glad--and that changed into a happy hands-all-around
+romp, interrupted by the thin note of a shepherd's flute. Out from the
+trees bordering the field David could see the shepherd come, swaying
+the upper part of his body in time to his thin note, and behind him came
+dancing nymphs and dryads and fauns. He touched 'Thusia's hand, and she
+nodded and smiled without taking her eyes from the organ. Then the
+dash of cymbals and the blare of trumpets and the martial tread of the
+warriors shook the green field--thousands of armed men--and all the
+while, faint but insistent, the piping of the shepherd and the laughter
+of the dancing nymphs. And then came priests bearing an altar, chanting.
+The cymbals and the flute and the trumpets ceased and the dancers were
+still. David could see the altar carried to the center of the green
+field. There was a moment of pause and then arose, faint at first but
+growing stronger each instant, the hymn of praise, of praise triumphant
+and all-overpowering. Mightier and mightier it grew until the whole
+universe seemed to join in the glorification of deity. David half arose
+from his seat, his hands grasping the back of the pew in front of him.
+Praise! this was praise indeed; praise worthy of the God worshiped in
+this church; worthy of any God!
+
+As the music ceased David's eye fell on Miss Hurley at the far end of
+his pew. The thin little woman in her cheap garments was wiping her eyes
+with her handkerchief. Her hands trembled with emotion. Suddenly she
+dropped her forehead to the back of the pew before her and with one
+silk-gloved hand on either side of her cheek, remained so.
+
+Professor Hedden, half turning on his seat, said:
+
+“While this next is hardly what I would call a complete composition, it
+may give you an idea of the capabilities of the organ.”
+
+When he ceased playing he said:
+
+“It is merely an exercise in technique, but I think it shows fairly well
+what can be done with a good organ.”
+
+It may have been merely an exercise, but it had made the organ perform
+as no one in that church, aside from Professor Hedden himself, had
+ever heard an organ perform. The full majesty and beauty of the great
+instrument, unguessed by those who had gathered to hear this first test,
+stood revealed. David Dean's heart was full. It seemed to him as if the
+organ, capable of speaking in such a manner, must be a mighty force to
+aid him in his ministerial work; as if the organ were a living thing.
+Such music must grasp souls and raise them far toward Heaven.
+
+Professor Hedden arose and approached the steps leading down from the
+organ. In the pew in front of David old Sam Wiggett, donor of the organ,
+sat in his greatcoat, his iron gray hair mussed as always. David could
+imagine the firm-set mouth, the heavy jowls, the bushy eyebrows, the
+scowl that seldom left the old man's face. Lucille Hardcome whispered to
+him and he nodded.
+
+“Now let's hear Miss Hurley play something,” said Lucille in her
+sweetest voice.
+
+“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Hurley, cowering into her corner. “Not now, please!
+Not after that!”
+
+Lucille laughed. Old Sam Wiggett sat as before, his head half hidden by
+his coat collar, but David knew the grim look that was on the old man's
+face. Wiggett's word would settle the organist matter when that grim old
+man chose to speak. David turned toward Miss Hurley, and she shook
+her head. He did his best to smother her refusal by advancing to the
+professor with congratulatory hand extended. In a moment the dozen
+fortunate listeners were crowded around Professor Hedden, and Miss
+Hurley, in her pew end, was forgotten.
+
+As 'Thusia, David and Miss Jane were leaving the church Lucille,
+jingling with jewelry, swooped down upon them.
+
+“Oh, Miss Hurley!” she called. “Just one minute, please!”
+
+Miss Jane stopped and turned.
+
+“Professor Hedden thinks,” Lucille cooed, “or, really, I'm not sure
+which of us thought of it, but we quite agree, that you must play at
+least once to-morrow morning! To christen _your_ organ with you taking
+no part would be quite too shameful. So”--she hesitated and her smile
+was wicked--“so we want you to play the congregation out after the
+professor is through. You know they will never leave while he is
+playing.”
+
+The taunt was cruel and plain enough--that the congregation _would_
+leave if Miss Jane played--and Miss Jane reddened. Professor Hedden,
+with Sam Wiggett, came up to them.
+
+“Of course you must play!” he said through his beard, in his gruff,
+kindly voice.
+
+“But, I--I--” stammered Miss Jane.
+
+“Good-night! Good-night, all!” said Lucille. “It's all arranged, Miss
+Hurley,” and she bore the professor away.
+
+“I shall not dare!” Miss Jane said to David. “After such music as the
+professor will give! Even the biggest thing I know--”
+
+“But you'll not play the biggest thing you know,” said David.
+
+The church was crowded the next morning. Even before the Sunday school
+was dismissed the seats began to fill. Sam Wiggett was on hand early,
+grim but proud of his great gift; his daughter came later with Lucille
+and Professor Hedden. When David came to take his seat behind his pulpit
+the church was filled as it had never been filled before, and many were
+standing. The two ladies of the choir had new hats. Professor Hedden
+took his place on the organist's bench and little Miss Jane cowered
+behind the rail curtain of terra-cotta wool. From the body of the church
+nothing could be seen but the top of the quaint little rooster wing on
+her hat. The praise service began.
+
+I cannot remember now what Professor Hedden played, but it was wonderful
+music, as we all knew it would be. There were moments when the whole
+church edifice seemed to tremble, and others when we held our breath
+lest we fail to hear the delicate whispering of the organ. From my
+seat in the diagonal pews at the side of the church I could see old Sam
+Wiggett's face, grim and set, and Lucille Hardcome's triumphant glances
+and David's thin, clean-cut features, his whole spirit uplifted by the
+music, and I could see Miss Jane's rooster wing sinking lower and lower
+behind the terra-cotta curtain.
+
+David's sermon was short, almost a rhapsody in praise of the music of
+praise, and then an anthem, and Professor Hedden's final offering. As
+the magnificent music rolled through the church, poor little Miss Jane's
+rooster wing disappeared entirely behind the curtain. The music ended
+in a mighty crash, into which Professor Hedden seemed to throw all the
+power of the organ. David arose. He stood a moment looking out upon the
+congregation.
+
+“Following the benediction,” his dear voice announced, “our organist,
+Miss Hurley, will play while the congregation is being dismissed.”
+
+Lucille looked from side to side, smiling and raising her eyebrows.
+David, however, did not give the benediction at once. He stood, looking
+out over the congregation, and behind him and the terra-cotta curtain
+two hats turned toward the place where we had seen Miss Jane's rooster
+wing sink out of sight. Professor Hedden bent down and raised Miss Jane
+and led her to the player's bench. She was very white. No one in the
+congregation moved. Then David spoke again.
+
+His words were simple enough. He began by speaking of the man who had
+given the organ, and called him rugged but big-souled, and Sam Wiggett
+frowned. David continued, saying the organ would always be a memorial of
+that man's generosity and more than that. As David raised his head
+there came from the organ, as if from far off--faint, most faint, like a
+child's voice singing--the strains of the old, old hymn:
+
+     “Rock of ages, cleft for me,
+     Let me hide myself in thee!”
+
+David continued as the music sang faintly. He said there was one, in
+whose name the donor had presented the organ, whose vacant place all
+would regret, since she, too, would have been eager to join in the music
+of praise, but he believed, he knew, that she was joining in the voice
+of the noble instrument from her new home on high. Then he said the
+benediction and the organ's voice grew strong, repeating the same noble
+hymn.
+
+The congregation arose. One by one the voices took up the hymn until
+every voice joined in singing old Sam Wiggett's favorite hymn; the hymn
+he loved because his wife had loved it:
+
+     “Rock of ages, cleft for me,
+     Let me hide myself in thee!”
+
+I cannot describe the change that came over the old man's face; it was
+as if he had been sitting with his hat on and suddenly uncovered. It
+was as if he had been grimly appraising a piece of property and suddenly
+realized that he was in God's house and felt the organ lifting his soul
+toward Heaven. He glanced to the left as if seeking the wife who had for
+so many years stood at his side to sing that same hymn. He raised his
+face to David and then suddenly dropped back into his seat. Miss Jane
+reached forward and manipulated I know not what stops and the organ
+opened its great lungs, crying triumphantly:
+
+     “Rock of ages, cleft for me,
+     Let me hide myself in thee!”
+
+Lucille waited for Professor Hedden and there were plenty who waited
+with her, but old Sam Wiggett stood, gruffly slighting the words of
+thanks that were proffered him, until Miss Jane came down from the
+organ. He went to her and took her hand.
+
+“Thank you, Jane!” he said. “That's what we want--music, not fireworks!”
+
+He walked with David and 'Thusia and Miss Jane to the church door.
+Mademoiselle was there and she pounced upon Miss Jane.
+
+“Ah, you see!” she cried. “I am disguised! I buy me a new hat so no one
+will know me, and I come to hear your grand organ. He was magnificent,
+your professor! But you, Meester Wiggett,” she asked in her quaint
+accent, “what you think now of our leetle St. Cecilia! She can play
+vairy nice!”
+
+Miss Jane blushed with pleasure.
+
+“Uh!” said Sam Wiggett, which--freely translated--meant that as long as
+he lived no one but Miss Jane should play the Wiggett pipe organ if he
+could prevent it. Lucille looked at David with a new respect.
+
+
+
+
+XI. STEVE TERRILL
+
+
+LUCILLE HARDCOME'S defeat, unimportant as it was to the world at large,
+made her furiously angry for a few days. She would have left the church
+to go to the Episcopalians if it had not been that the Episcopalian
+Church in Riverbank was direly poverty-stricken. Lucille sulked for a
+few days and let the report go out that she was ill, and then appeared
+with her hair, which had been golden, a glorious shade of red. She said
+it was Titian. It was immensely becoming to her. Had any other woman in
+the congregation dared to change the color of her hair thus flauntingly
+there would have been little less than a scandal. That her first hair
+vagary created little adverse comment shows how completely Lucille had
+impressed us with the idea that she was extra-privileged. Later she
+changed the color of her hair as the whim seized her, varying from red
+to gold.
+
+In addition to the change in the color of her hair Lucille came out of
+her brief retirement with an entirely changed opinion of David Dean. She
+seemed suddenly aware that, far from being a mere church accessory, he
+was someone worth while. She began to court his good opinion openly.
+Having burned her fingers she admired the fire.
+
+Lucille was a woman of elementary mentality and much of her domineering
+success was due to that very fact. She often went after what she wanted
+with a directness that was crude but effective. Lucille set about
+getting David under her thumb.
+
+Poor David! Lucille saw that his dearest tasks of helpfulness were
+always shared by the trio--'Thusia, now grown pale; Rose Hinch, the
+ever-cheerful; and Mary Derling. These three understood David. They
+echoed his gentle tact and loving-kindness, and it was to be a fourth in
+this group that Lucille decided was the thing she desired.
+
+For the work done by the trio, under David's gentle direction, Lucille
+was eminently unfitted. The three women were handmaidens of charity;
+Lucille was a major general of earthly ambitions. In spite of this she
+thrust herself upon David.
+
+The power of single-minded insistence is enormous. We see this
+exemplified over and over again in politics; the most unsuitable men, by
+plain force of will, thrust themselves into office. They are not
+wanted; everyone knows they are out of place, but they have their way.
+Lucille--resplendent hair, flaring gowns and all--forced David to accept
+her as one of his intimate helpers by the simple expedient of insisting
+that he should. It is only fair to say that she opened her purse, but
+this was in itself an evidence of her unfitness for the work she had to
+do. Most of David's “cases” needed personal service of a kind Lucille
+was incapable of rendering. She gave them dollars instead. Time and
+again she upset David's plans by opening her hand and showering silver
+where it was not good to bestow it. She tried to take full command of
+Rose Hinch and Mary Derling. They went calmly on their accustomed ways.
+
+In one matter in which David was interested Lucille did give valuable
+assistance. Although Riverbank was notoriously a “wet” town the State
+had voted a prohibitory law against liquor selling. In Riverbank the law
+was all but a dead letter. The saloons remained open, the proprietors
+coming up once a month to pay a “fine,” which was in fact a local
+license. Probably our saloons were no worse than those in other river
+towns, but many of us believed it a scandal that they should continue
+doing business contrary to law. Our Davy was never much of a believer in
+the minister in politics, although he had said his say from the pulpit
+with enough youthful fervor back in Civil War days, but he feared and
+hated the saloon and all liquor, remembering his long fight for Mack
+Graham and plenty of other youths. He was mourning, too, his best of
+friends, old Doc Benedict, who never overcame his craving for whisky,
+and who died after being thrown from his carriage one night when he had
+taken too much. No doubt Sam Wiggett had some influence over David's
+actions, too. The old man was all for having the saloons closed as long
+as the law said they should be closed, and, to some extent, he dragged
+Davy into the fight.
+
+It was understood that if our county attorney wished the saloons closed
+he could close them. A fight was made to elect a “dry” county attorney,
+and, as it happened, the fight carried all the county and town offices.
+Every Democrat was thrown out.
+
+No one can say how greatly David Dean's part in the campaign affected
+the result. I think it had a greater effect than was generally believed.
+For one thing his sermons aroused us as nothing else could have aroused
+us, and for another he had the assistance of Lucille Hardcome.
+
+As women are apt to do, Lucille made her fight a personal matter.
+She organized the women, organized children's parades, planned
+house-to-house appeals and persuaded even the merchants who favored
+open saloons to place her placards in their windows. It is probable that
+Lucille's work did more to cause the landslide than all the handbills
+and speeches of the politicians and she did it all to impress David.
+David's personal stand also had a great effect, for he was known as a
+conservative, meddling little with political affairs. It is hardly too
+much to say that between them Lucille Hardcome and David carried the
+election. The margin was small enough as it was. The _Riverbank Eagle_,
+after the election, declared that without David's help the prohibition
+forces would have lost out. Among the other defeated candidates was
+Marty Ware, who had been city treasurer for several terms.
+
+The new city officials, most of them greatly surprised to find
+themselves elected, were to take office January first, and it was one
+day about the middle of December that Steve Turrill came to the front
+door of the little manse and asked for David. 'Thusia, who came to
+the door, knew Turrill. She had known him years before, when she was a
+thoughtless, pleasure-mad young girl. Even then Steve had been a gambler
+and fond of a fast horse. In those days Steve would often disappear for
+months at a time, for the steamboats were gambling palaces. He never
+returned until his pockets were full of money and his mouth full of
+tales of Memphis, Cairo, St. Louis and even New Orleans. He was known in
+all the gambling places up and down the Mississippi.
+
+At the beginning of the Civil War Steve Turrill had enlisted, returning,
+after about five months service, with a bullet in his leg just below
+the left hip. The bullet was never found. After that Steve walked with
+a cane and on damp days one could see him in a chair in front of the
+Riverbank Hotel, his forehead creased with pain and his left hand
+ceaselessly rubbing his left hip. When his hip was worst he could not
+sit still at the gaming table. To the gambler's pallor was added the
+pallor of pain.
+
+As a boy I remember him sitting under the iron canopy of the hotel.
+We all knew he was a gambler, and he was the only gambler we knew.
+Sometimes he would have a trotter, and we would see him flash down
+the street behind the red-nostriled animal; sometimes even the diamond
+horseshoe in his tie and the rings on his fingers would be gone.
+
+Everyone seemed to speak to Steve Turrill. Even as a boy I knew,
+vaguely, that he had a room in the Riverbank Hotel where people went to
+gamble. It was understood that not everyone could gamble there. I think
+there was a feeling that Steve Turrill was “straight,” and that as
+he had been wounded in the war, and was the last professional gambler
+Riverbank would have, he should not be bothered. I believe he was always
+a sick man and that, from the day he returned from the war, Death stood
+constantly at his side.
+
+He looked as if Death's hand had touched him. His thin, sharp features
+were ashen gray at times and his hands were mere bones covered with
+transparent skin. He never smiled. He never touched liquor. He smoked a
+long, thin cigar that he had made especially for his own use; I suppose
+Doc Benedict had told him how much he could smoke and remain alive.
+
+When 'Thusia saw him at the door (it was one of her “well” days) she was
+not startled; for many odd fish come to a dominie's door from one end of
+the year to the next. He leaned on his cane and took off his gray felt
+hat.
+
+“'Day, 'Thusia,” he said, quite as if they had not been strangers for
+years; “I wonder if Mr. Dean is in?”
+
+“He's in,” said 'Thusia, “but this is the afternoon he works on his
+sermon. He tries not to see anyone.”
+
+“This is more important than a sermon,” said Turrill. “Would you mind
+telling him that?” David would see him. He came to the door himself
+and led the gambler into the little study where the spatter-work motto,
+“Keep an even mind under all circumstances,” hung above the desk.
+He gave Turrill his hand and placed a chair for him, and the gambler
+dropped into the chair with a sigh of pain.
+
+“I think you know who I am,” said Turrill, rubbing his hip. “I'm
+Turrill. I do a little in the gambling way.”
+
+“Yes, so I understand,” said David, and waited. “It's not about myself
+I've come,” said Turrill. “I wouldn't bother about myself; I'm dead any
+day. I've been dead twenty-five years, as far as my gambling chance of
+life goes. Do you know Marty Ware?”
+
+“Yes,” said David. “Is it about him?”
+
+“He's going to kill himself,” said Turrill without emotion.
+
+David waited.
+
+“The fool!” said Turrill. “He came to me and told me. Why, I can't sleep
+anyway, with this hip of mine! How can I sleep, then, when I've got such
+a thing as that on my mind! So I came to you; that's what you're for,
+isn't it!”
+
+“It is one of the things,” said David.
+
+“He got that book of Ingersoll's,” Turrill complained. “The fool! I've
+read that book! Do you think, with this pain in my hip, I would be
+dragging along here day after day, if there was anything in that idea
+that a man has a right to blow himself out when he feels like it! But
+that's what Mart Ware has worked into his head. Suicide! He's going to
+do it!”
+
+“Yes! Well!” asked David.
+
+Turrill, rubbing his hip, looked at David. He had hardly expected
+anything like this calm query. He had pictured our dominie rushing for
+coat and hat, rolling his eyes, perhaps, and muttering prayers. Instead,
+David leaned back in his deep chair and placed the tips of his fingers
+together and waited.
+
+“I won his money,” said Turrill.
+
+“Yes, I supposed so, or you wouldn't be here, would you!” said David.
+
+“The devil of it--” Turrill stopped. “The--”
+
+“I dare say it is the devil of it,” said David. “Go on.”
+
+“Well, then, the devil of it is, I'm strapped!” said Turrill. “If I
+wasn't--” He waved his hand to show how simple it would be. “He came
+yesterday, telling me the story. I'm a sick man; I close my place at one
+every morning; I can't stand any more than that; but last night I let
+them stay until daylight, and, curse it! I had no luck! I took the limit
+off and tried to win what Marty needs, and they cleaned me out and took
+my I. O. U.'s. So I came to you. It was all I could think of.”
+
+He paused a moment while he rubbed his hip. “It wasn't his own money
+Marty lost,” he said then. “He's taken two thousand dollars of the
+city money, and I won it.” He stretched out his leg and fumbled in
+his trousers pocket and brought out a roll of money. “There!” he said;
+“there is five hundred dollars. I went around today and raised that
+among the men who come to my room. I can't raise another cent. That's
+all _I_ can do; what can you do?”
+
+Now David arose and walked the narrow space before Turrill.
+
+“I suppose his bondsmen will make good! He has bondsmen, hasn't he? I
+don't know much about such things.”
+
+“They'll have to make good what he is short,” said Turrill. “Seth
+Hardcome will have to make it all good. Tony Porter is on the bond,
+but he hasn't a cent. If he had a cent he wouldn't have gone on the
+bond--that's the kind he is. Hardcome is the man that'll have to make
+good. But he'll see Mart Ware in the penitentiary first.”
+
+“Why!”
+
+Turrill made a gesture with his hand.
+
+“How do I know! Mart says so; Mart went to him. He told Hardcome the
+whole thing and asked him to see him through--said he would work his
+hands to the bone to pay it back. Hardcome won't do anything and Porter
+can't and Marty will kill himself before he goes to the pen. Hardcome is
+one of your deacons, or whatever you call them, isn't he!”
+
+“No. He is not in my church at all,” said David. “But he is a just man;
+I am sure he is a just man.”
+
+“He is a hard man,” said Turrill. “The most he would do for me was to
+say he would keep his mouth shut until the new treasurer goes in. He
+says he'll send Marty to the pen; he'll kill Marty instead.”
+
+Turrill arose. There was no emotion shown on his inscrutable gambler's
+face. David stood fingering the money Turrill had handed him, and
+Turrill moved to the door. From the back he looked like an old, old man.
+
+“You can see what you can do, if you want to,” Turrill said. “I can't do
+anything.”
+
+“Wait!” David said. “You'll let me thank you for coming to me? You'll
+let me call on you for help if I need it?”
+
+“Anything!” said Turrill, and with that he went.
+
+'Thusia was in the kitchen and David went there.
+
+“It's Marty Ware,” he said. “He's in trouble, 'Thusia. I'll have to go
+downtown and let my sermon go. We'll give them another from the bottom
+of the barrel this time. Do you suppose you can, presently, take Alice
+and drop in on Marty's mother for a little visit? Are you able?”
+
+“In half an hour?”
+
+“Yes, or in an hour. Marty is in dire trouble, 'Thusia, and I don't know
+whether he can be pulled out of it. I'm going to do what I can. I've
+been thinking of his mother; she is so--what's the word!--aloof!
+isolated! so by herself. If the trouble comes she will need someone,
+some woman, or she will break. I'd send Rose Hinch, but I think you
+would be better--you and Alice.”
+
+“Yes, I understand,” 'Thusia said. “'Something not too bright and good
+for human nature's daily food.' Is Marty's trouble serious!”
+
+David placed his hand on his wife's shoulder. “I can't tell you how
+serious, 'Thusia,” he said. “I don't want you to know. You'll not let
+his mother guess we know anything about it!”
+
+“Let me think!” said 'Thusia. “Didn't she give a lemon cake for our last
+church dinner! I'm sure she did! It will be about that I happen to run
+in. You'll be back in time for supper, David! Hot rolls, you know!”
+
+“Oh, if it is hot rolls you can depend on me!” David smiled.
+
+Mrs. Ware was a peculiar woman. She was an old woman and alone in the
+world except for Marty, her only son, who had come late in her life. She
+was a proud woman. During her husband's life she had rather lorded it
+(or ladied it) over our mixed “good society” in Riverbank. Ware had
+been a commission man, now and then plunging on his own hook, as we say,
+buying heavily and selling when prices went up. He always had abundant
+money, and Mrs. Ware spent it for him. They built the big house
+overlooking the river--a palace for Riverbank of those days--and Mrs.
+Ware held her head very high, with four horses in the stable and a
+coachman and gardener and two maids and a grand piano and four oil
+paintings “done by hand” in Europe! And then, when Ware died, there
+was hardly enough money in the bank to pay for his funeral, no life
+insurance, and everything mortgaged. Marty was about fourteen then, a
+bright boy.
+
+For a year or so Mrs. Ware tried to keep the big house, and then it
+had to go. Instead of the social queen, spending the largest income in
+Riverbank, she was almost the poorest of women. She moved out of the
+big house into a little three-room white box of a place on a back street
+that was then a mere track through the weeds. Her white hands had to
+do all the housework that was done; she had no maid at all, and hardly
+enough for herself and Marty to eat. No doubt it was a crushing blow,
+but she could not bare herself in her poverty to those who had known her
+in her flaunting prosperity. She shut her door, and became a proud, hard
+recluse.
+
+Somehow she managed to get Marty through the high school, and then he
+went to work. He found some minor position in one of our banks and might
+have held it and have worked up into a better position, for he proved
+to be a natural accountant, but the “fast set” caught him, and, after
+it was learned that he spent his nights with the cards, the bank let
+him go. Until he was twenty-one he skipped from one temporary job to
+another. Sometimes he was in the freight office, then with a mill, then
+behind a counter for a few weeks. He had wonderful adaptability and
+seemed able to step into a position and take up the work of another
+man in an instant. He seemed destined to become a permanent “temporary
+assistant,” but he was making more friends all the while and he had
+hardly passed his majority when he was elected city treasurer. He seemed
+to have found his proper niche at last.
+
+The salary attached to the treasurership was not large but it was
+enough, or would have been if Marty had not gambled. One good black
+winter suit and one good black summer suit will last many years in
+Riverbank, and Marty always seemed properly dressed in black. He was
+slender and what we called “natty.” His hair was as black as night.
+During his second term he began to show the effects of his nights. His
+face became paler than it should have been, and some mornings he was so
+tremulous he took a glass of whisky to steady his hands. With all this
+he was immensely popular, and when the chances of the campaign in which
+he was finally beaten were discussed Mart Ware was the one man no one
+believed could be beaten. He lost by twenty votes.
+
+As David walked down the hill toward Main Street and Seth Hardcome's
+shoe store he thought of these things. Mart Ware was one man, if there
+were any, who had been thrown out of office through David's part in the
+campaign. To that extent he was specifically responsible; in the broader
+sense that he was his “brother's keeper” it was his duty to do all he
+could to save any man or woman in such trouble as Marty was in.
+
+A year or two earlier Seth Hardcome, his tough old body beginning to
+feel the draughts and changes of temperature of his long, narrow store,
+had had Belden, the contractor, partition off an office across the rear,
+and here David found the old man. He was standing at his tall desk,
+making out half-yearly bills against the coming of the first of January,
+and he pushed his spectacles up into his hair and turned to David with
+the air of a busy man interrupted.
+
+“Well, dominie!”
+
+David put his hand on the back of one of the chairs near the little
+stove that heated the office.
+
+“Can you sit down for a minute or two!” he asked. “Have you time to talk
+facts and figures; to give me a business man's good advice!”
+
+“Why, yes,” said Hardcome; “I guess you ain't going to try to sell me
+any stocks and bonds, eh! I guess you're one man I don't have to be
+afraid of that with. Facts and figures, eh! Fire away!”
+
+David seated himself and put one knee over the other. The warmth of the
+stove was grateful after the chill air outside, and he rubbed his palms
+back and forth against each other.
+
+“Do you know--or, if you don't know exactly, can you guess fairly dose
+to it--what the campaign we had last month cost our crowd!” David asked.
+
+“County or city!” asked Hardcome. “I guess there wasn't much spent
+outside the city.”
+
+“I was thinking of the city,” said David.
+
+“Well, we _raised_ pretty close to four thousand dollars,” said
+Hardcome, “and we _spent_ more than that. We _spent_ more than four
+thousand dollars. Halls, fireworks, speakers, printing--costs a lot of
+money! I guess the other fellows spent three times that, so we can't
+complain. I hear the liquor makers poured a lot of money into Riverbank,
+and I guess it's so. Wouldn't surprise me at all if they spent ten or
+twelve thousand.”
+
+“To our four thousand,” said David. “Looking at it that way you couldn't
+call our money wasted, could you!”
+
+“Wasted! What you talking about! To clean out these saloons! Four
+thousand dollars wasted, when we've as good as got the saloons closed
+by spending it! You don't take count of money that way when it's for a
+thing like that, do you!”
+
+“Money is money,” said David sagely. “A half of four thousand dollars
+would be a wonderful help to our church. And yours is not too rich, is
+it! Four thousand dollars would buy the poor how many pairs of shoes!
+Eight hundred! A thousand!”
+
+“Depends on the kind of shoes,” said Hardcome with a grim smile. “And a
+lot of good it would do to give them shoes into one hand, when they go
+right off and spend all they've got, in the saloons, with the other.
+Ain't they better off with the saloons closed and the money in their
+pockets to buy their own shoes!”
+
+“Yes, I'll admit that,” said David. “Is that why we made the fight to
+close the saloons! So they could buy their own shoes! There are not
+so many poor in this town, Hardcome. You don't see many suffering for
+shoes. I thought our campaign had something to do with saving a few
+souls--a few bodies that were going down into the gutter.”
+
+“So it did!” said Hardcome promptly. “I didn't start saying how many
+shoes the campaign money would buy, did I! I seem to remember you said
+it first.”
+
+He smiled again, the pleased smile of a man who has got a dominie in a
+corner in argument. David smiled too.
+
+“I believe I did first mention the campaign in terms of shoes,” he
+admitted. “I stand corrected. It should be mentioned in terms of
+souls--human souls, not shoe soles. And, looking at it that way, was it
+worth the price! Was it worth four thousand dollars!”
+
+“My stars!” exclaimed Hardcome, and stared at David in genuine surprise.
+
+“I mean just that,” insisted David; “was it worth four thousand dollars!
+How many souls will the campaign actually save! One! Ten! A thousand!
+Not a thousand. We can't say, offhand, that every man who stepped into a
+saloon lost his soul, can we! He might be saved later, and in some other
+way, at less cost. How many in Riverbank have died in the gutter in the
+last year? How many have killed themselves because of drink?”
+
+“But--” Hardcome began. David raised his hand.
+
+“Because,” he said, “next year we may have this all to do over again.
+Next year we may need another four thousand dollars, and the next year,
+and the next year. How many men in Riverbank actually die in the gutter
+each year!”
+
+Now, there are not many. Riverbank men do not often die in the gutter,
+and but few of them kill themselves on account of drink. They live on
+for years, a handful of sodden, stupid, blear-eyed creatures.
+
+“One!” asked David. “Is the average one a year? I don't believe it,
+but let us say it is one. Is it worth four thousand dollars to save
+one drunkard from death! To save one drunkard's soul! There is a plain
+business proposition: Is it worth that much cash! That's what I'm
+getting at.”
+
+“To save a man!” exclaimed Hardcome, his hard face as near showing
+horror as it had for many long years. “To save a man and his eternal
+soul! What do you mean! We don't set prices on souls, that way, do we!
+My stars! I never heard of such a thing! And from a dominie! You can't
+count a soul in cash dollars. What if it is but one soul we drag back
+from hell-fire! What's four thousand, or five thousand, or ten thousand
+dollars when it comes to a soul!”
+
+“I don't mean your soul, or mine,” said David. “I mean a drunkard's
+soul, or some soul like that. Is it worth while to spend four thousand
+dollars to save one soul!”
+
+“Of course it is!” snapped Hardcome. “Couldn't we,” urged David, “save
+more souls, at a lower cost per soul, if we sent the money to foreign
+missions!”
+
+“I don't know whether we could or we couldn't,” cried Hardcome. “That's
+got nothing to do with it. We got to take care of the souls right at
+home first. I don't care if it costs ten thousand dollars a soul, it's
+our duty to do it!” David arose and turned and faced the shoe merchant.
+His face was white. His eyes were like gray steel. He had no smile now.
+
+“Then, if you think souls are worth so much,” he asked tensely, “why
+are you sending Marty Ware to eternal death for a miserable two thousand
+dollars! Two thousand! For a miserable fifteen hundred, for here are
+five hundred a benighted gambler dug up to save the boy!” Hardcome was
+on his feet too. He had turned as white as David, or whiter.
+
+“Are drunkards' souls the only souls you prize, Seth Hardcome!” asked
+David. “Don't you know that boy will kill himself if he is exposed and
+ruined! A fool! Of course he is a fool! You knew he was a gambler--you
+must have known it--and you let him run his course when you might have
+brought him up short, threatening to get off his bond. You talk about
+ten-thousanddollar souls, and you will not turn over your hand to save
+Marty Ware's soul when it will not cost you a cent!”
+
+“It'll cost me two thousand dollars,” said Hardcome. “That's what it'll
+cost me!”
+
+“And you call yourself a business man!” laughed David. “A business man!
+Look!”
+
+He picked up the roll of bank notes he had thrown on the shoe merchant's
+desk.
+
+“This is what a gambler gave to save Marty,” he exclaimed. “Five hundred
+dollars! And you talk about it costing you two thousand to save Marty
+from suicide! Why, man, your two thousand is _gone!_ You are his
+bondsman, the only responsible one, and you'll have to pay whether he is
+dead and in eternal fire, or alive and to be saved! Your two thousand
+is gone, spent, vanished already and it will not cost you a cent more
+to save Marty Ware's soul. Here, take this five hundred dollars; you can
+_save_ five hundred dollars by saving Marty Ware's eternal soul!”
+
+Hardcome was dazed. He put out his hand and took the money and looked at
+it unseeingly, turning it over and over in his fingers. Then he looked
+up at David, and in David's eyes was a twinkle. The dominie put his hand
+on the shoe man's arm, and laughed.
+
+“Did I do that well?” he asked.
+
+Hardcome did not smile. He turned his head and peered through the glass
+of the door into the store room, doubtless to see where his clerk was
+and whether he had heard, and then he looked back at David.
+
+“Sit down,” he said, still unsmilingly.
+
+David seated himself. Hardcome stood, half leaning against the desk,
+turning the roll of bills in his hand.
+
+“You don't know why I went on that boy's bond,” he said. “His mother
+slammed a door in my wife's face, or what amounted to that, or worse.
+His mother was queen of Riverbank when you came, and for a long while
+after, so I needn't tell you how high and mighty she was before Ware
+died. You know, I guess. They came here in 'Fifty-three, and my wife and
+I came in 'Fifty-one, and I started this shoe business that year. That
+was on Water Street, in a frame shack where the Riverbank Hotel stands
+now. I didn't move the store up here until 'Fifty-nine. My wife and I
+lived at the old Morton House until the bugs drove us out---bugs and
+roaches, and we couldn't stand them--and there were no houses to be had,
+so for a while we lived back of the store in the shack, getting along
+the best we could, waiting for houses to be built.
+
+“The Wares had some money when they came, and Tarvole, who was building
+the house we hoped to rent, sold it to Ware and they moved in. You know
+how things are in a new town. Anyway, my wife took her calling cards and
+called on Mrs. Ware. She didn't find the lady at home, and that evening
+a boy brought my wife's card back to her. He said Mrs. Ware told him to
+say she wasn't at home, and wouldn't be, to a cobbler.
+
+“My wife laughed at it, but it made me mad enough. I said I would
+get even with the Wares, and I meant it. I kept it in mind for years,
+waiting a chance, but you don't always have a chance. There are some
+men and women you can't seem to hurt, and the Wares were two of them. He
+seemed to make plenty of money and keep out of things where I could have
+done him a bad turn. I got to be a director in the Riverbank National,
+but he never needed to borrow, so I couldn't hurt him there. His wife
+was always at the top of things, too. I couldn't hit her.
+
+“Well, Ware died and everything went. The widow was as poor as a church
+mouse; I don't know how she got along. She was so poor she couldn't be
+hurt; she was like the dust you walk on--it's dust, and that's an end of
+it: it can't be anything less. She shut herself up, and was nothing.
+My wife was dead, anyway, and I couldn't hurt the widow by flaunting my
+wife and the position she had in the widow's face.
+
+“Then this boy grew up--this Marty. I got him the place in the bank.”
+
+“You did!” David exclaimed.
+
+“It was the only way I could hit at the widow,” said Hardcome. “I
+thought maybe it would annoy her, to know I was the one that was helping
+her boy. Maybe it did. I never knew. When the cashier said it wasn't
+safe to keep him any longer I told Marty to tell his mother not to
+worry; that I would try to fix it so he could stay. I did manage to get
+them to keep him a few months longer; then they outvoted me.
+
+“Then I got him the place in the freight office, but he couldn't hold
+it. A couple of times, when he lost his jobs, I took him in the store
+here. I knew that would annoy the old dame, and I guess it did. Then
+some of the Democrats picked him up and ran him for this job he has now.
+It made me mad that I couldn't say I had been back of that, but when it
+came to getting a couple of bondsmen I saw another chance to bother the
+old lady. I went on his bond.”
+
+Hardcome unrolled the money in his hand and smoothed it out.
+
+“You knew my wife, dominie;” he continued slowly. “Some people did not
+like her, but I did. I never had any complaint to make about her; she
+was a good wife. So it sort of seemed to me--when Turrill came to me and
+told me what Marty had done--and I remembered how that woman had slammed
+her door in my wife's face, so to say--that this was my chance--my
+chance to get even once for all.”
+
+He stopped, folded the bills, and slipped them into his pocket.
+
+“You see,” he said, “you didn't know the whole story. It would have been
+something of a windup to send the boy to the penitentiary. I guess that
+would have taken the old lady off her high horse. But I don't know. I
+don't want to kill the boy's soul, or anybody's soul. I guess I'll make
+good what he is short, and take him into the store here again.”
+
+David was ont of his chair and his hand clasped Hardcome's hand. The old
+man laughed then, a little sheepishly.
+
+“Sort of tickles me!” he said. “Wouldn't the old dame be hopping mad if
+she knew the cobbler was going to save the Riverbank queen's boy, and
+his life, and his soul, and the whole caboodle!”
+
+“It would be coals of fire on her head,” smiled David.
+
+“'Twould so!” said Seth Hardcome; “and I reckon the hair is getting
+pretty thin on the top of her head now, too!”
+
+Then he laughed. And David laughed.
+
+He was still smiling when he stepped out into the street and was told by
+the first man he met that old Sam Wiggett had just dropped dead in his
+office.
+
+
+
+
+XII. MONEY MATTERS
+
+
+LOOKING back, in later years, the death of old Sam Wiggett seemed to
+David Dean to mark the close of one epoch and the beginning of another,
+and the day he heard of the engagement of his daughter Alice marked a
+third.
+
+It was Monday and well past noon and the heat was intense. Although he
+was late for dinner--noon dinners being the rule in Riverbank--David
+paused now and then as he climbed the Third Street hill, resting a
+few moments in the shade and fanning himself with the palm-leaf fan he
+carried. Where the walk was not shaded by overarching maple trees the
+heat beat up from the plank sidewalks in appreciable gusts. All spring
+he had been feeling unaccountably weary, and these hot days seemed to
+take the sap out of him. He had had a hard morning.
+
+His Sunday had held a disappointment. In one way or another Lucille
+Hardcome had induced John Gorst, whose fame as a pulpit orator was
+country-wide, to spend the day at Riverbank and preach morning and
+evening--in the morning at David's church and in the evening at the
+union meeting in the court square--and David had looked forward to the
+day as one that would give _him_ the uplift of communion with one of the
+great minds of his church. He had dined at Lucille's with John Gorst
+and had had the afternoon with him, and it had been all a sad
+disappointment. Instead of finding Gorst a big mind he had found him
+somewhat shallow and theatrical. Instead of a day of intellectual growth
+David had suffered a day of shattered ideals. While he disliked to admit
+it he had to confess that the great John Gorst was tiresome.
+
+He did admit, however, that the two sermons John Gorst preached were
+masterpieces of pulpit oratory. What he said was not so much, nor did he
+leave in David's mind so much as a mustard seed of original thought, but
+the great preacher had held his congregations breathless. He had
+made them weep and gasp, and he had thrilled them. Hearing him David
+understood why John Gorst had leaped from a third-rate church in a
+country village to one of the best churches in a large town, and then to
+a famous and wealthy church in a metropolis.
+
+David's first duty this Monday morning had been to see John Gorst off on
+the morning train. Lucille Hardcome and four or five others had been at
+the station, and John Gorst had glowed under their words of adulation.
+Well-fed, well-groomed, he had nodded to them from the car window as
+the train pulled out, and David had turned away to tramp through the
+hot streets to the East End where, Rose Hinch had sent word, old Mrs.
+Grelling was close to death. John Gorst, in his parlor car, was on his
+way to complete his two months' vacation at the camp of a millionaire
+parishioner in the Wisconsin woods.
+
+Old Mrs. Grelling, senile and maundering, had been weeping weakly,
+oppressed by a hallucination that she had lost her grasp on Heaven. Her
+little room was insufferably hot and close, and Rose Hinch sat by the
+bed fanning the emaciated old woman, turning her pillow now and then,
+trying to make her comfortable. Her patient had no bodily pain; in an
+hour, or a day, or a week, she would fall asleep forever and without
+discomfort, but now she was in dire distress of mind. Grown childish she
+could not remember that she was at peace with God, and she mourned and
+would not let Rose Hinch comfort her.
+
+In twelve words David brought peace to the old woman in the bed. It was
+not logic she wanted, nor oratory such as John Gorst could have given,
+but the few words of comfort from the man of God in whom she had faith.
+David knelt by the bed and prayed, and read “The Lord is My Shepherd,”
+ and her doubts no longer troubled her. If David Dean, the dominie she
+had trusted these many years, assured her she was safe, she could
+put aside worry and die peacefully. David saw a Book of Psalms on her
+bedside table, less bulky than the large-typed Bible, and he put it in
+her hands.
+
+“Hold fast to this,” he said, “it is the sign of your salvation. You
+will not be afraid again. I must go now, but I will come back again.”
+
+He left her clasping the book in both her hands. She died before he saw
+her again, but Rose Hinch told him she held the book until she died,
+and that she had no return of the childish fear. She slept into eternity
+peacefully content.
+
+From Mrs. Grelling's bedside David walked to Herwig's to give his
+daily order for groceries. The old grocer entered the small order and
+hesitated.
+
+“Dominie--” he said.
+
+David knew what was coming, or imagined he did, and felt sick at heart.
+
+“Yes?” he queried.
+
+“I guess you know as well as I do how I hate to say anything about
+money,” said Herwig, “and you know I wouldn't if I wasn't so hard put to
+it I don't know which way to turn. I don't want you to worry about it.
+If it ain't convenient just you forget I ever said anything. Fact is
+I'm so pressed for money I'm worried to death. The wholesalers I get my
+goods of--”
+
+“My bill is much larger than it should be,” said David. “I have let it
+run longer than I have any right to. Just at this moment--”
+
+“I wouldn't even speak of it if I wasn't so put to it to satisfy those I
+owe,” said Herwig apologetically. “I thought maybe you might be able to
+help me out somehow, but I don't want to put you to any trouble.”
+
+He was evidently sincere.
+
+“My wholesalers are threatening to close me out,” he said, “and I've
+just got to try every way I can to raise some cash. If it wasn't for
+that I wouldn't dun a good customer, let alone you, Mr. Dean.”
+
+“I know it, Brother Herwig,” David said. “You have been most lenient. I
+am ashamed. I will see what I can do.”
+
+The old grocer followed him to the door, still protesting his regret,
+and David turned up the street to do the thing he disliked most of
+anything in the world--ask his trustees for a further advance on his
+salary.
+
+Already he was overdrawn by several hundred dollars, and he was as
+deeply ashamed of this as he was of his debts to the merchants of
+Riverbank. It had always been his pride to be “even with the world”;
+he felt that no man had a right to live beyond his means--“spending
+to-morrow to pay for to-day,” he called it--and he had worried much over
+his accumulating debts. That very morning, before he had left his manse,
+he had made out a new schedule of his indebtedness, and had been shocked
+to see how it had grown since his trustees had made the last advance he
+had asked. With the advance the trustees had allowed him, the total
+was something over a thousand dollars. He still owed something on last
+winter's coal; he owed a goodly drug bill; his grocery bill was unpaid
+since the first of the year; he owed the butcher; the milkman had a bill
+against him; there were a dozen small accounts for shoes, drygoods, one
+thing and another.
+
+In Riverbank, at that time, business was nearly all credit business.
+Bills were rendered twice a year, or even once a year, and, when
+rendered, often remained unpaid for another six months or so. As
+accounts went David's accounts were satisfactory to the merchants;
+he was counted a “good” customer. His indebtedness had grown slowly,
+beginning with his wife's illness, and he had run in debt beyond his
+means almost without being aware of it. A semiyearly settling period had
+come around, and he had found himself without sufficient funds to pay
+in full, as he usually did. He paid what he could, and let the balance
+remain, hoping to pay in full at the next settling period. Instead
+of this he found himself still further behind, and each half year had
+increased his load of unpaid bills.
+
+David worried. He questioned his right to think the church did not pay
+him enough, for he received as much as any other minister in Riverbank,
+and more than most, and his remuneration came promptly on the day it was
+due, and was never in arrears, as was the case with at least one other.
+As a matter of fact, his trustees had several times advanced him money,
+and had advanced him three hundred dollars on the current quarter year.
+
+The dominie felt no resentment against the church or the trustees.
+More remunerative pulpits had been offered him, and he had refused them
+because he believed his work lay in Riverbank. Despite all this he could
+not accuse himself of extravagance. He had raised two children, and they
+were an expense, but he did not for a moment question his right to have
+children. He would have liked a half dozen; certainly two--in a town
+where larger families were the rule--could not be called extravagant.
+Neither were they extravagant children. Roger had been given as much
+college training as he seemed able to bear, and had been economical
+enough; Alice had wished for college but had been compelled to be
+satisfied with graduation from the Riverbank High School, and was at
+home taking the place of the maid David felt he could no longer afford.
+
+In the final analysis, David's inability to make his salary meet his
+needs resolved itself into a matter of his wife's illness. 'Thusia,
+once the liveliest of girls, was now practically bedridden, although
+she could be brought downstairs now and then to rest on a divan in the
+sitting room. She was a permanent invalid now, but a cheerful one. In
+many ways she was more helpful to David than in their earlier married
+years; her advice was good, and, with Rose Hinch and Mary Derling, she
+made the council of three that upheld David's hands in his works of
+charity and helpfulness. But an invalid is, however helpful her brain
+may be, an expense, and one not contemplated by trustees when they set a
+minister's salary. Certainly 'Thusia's illness was not the fault of the
+church, but it was the cause of David's debts. He could not and did
+not blame the church for his financial condition, nor could he blame
+'Thusia. Alice was doing her full share in the house, taking the maid's
+place, but Roger--alas, Roger! Roger, the well-beloved son, was a
+disappointment. He now had a “job,” but after David's high hopes for
+the lad the place Roger occupied was almost humiliating. David felt that
+Roger probably hardly earned the four dollars a week he was paid by
+his grandfather, old Mr. Fragg. He no longer called on his father
+good-naturedly for funds, but he still lived at home, and probably would
+as long as the home existed.
+
+So this was our dominie as he walked through the hot Main Street on his
+way to see Banker Burton, now his most influential trustee. Our David
+was but slightly round-shouldered; his eyes still clear and gray; hair
+still curled gold; mouth refined and quick to smile; brow broad, and but
+little creased. His entire air was one of quick and kindly intelligence;
+a little weary after twenty-nine years of ministry, a little worn by
+care, but our Davy still.
+
+I remember him telling me how the passing of the old and staunch friends
+and (occasional) enemies affected him--men like old Sam Wiggett--and
+how he felt less like a child of the patriarchs, and more like something
+bargained and contracted for. This was said without bitterness; he was
+trying to let me know what an important part in his younger years those
+old elders and trustees had played. They never quite stopped thinking
+of David as the boy minister, and to David they remained something stern
+and authoritative, like the ancient Biblical patriarchs.
+
+They had seemed the God-appointed rulers of the church; somehow the
+newer trustees and elders, the reason for the choosing of each of whom
+was known to David, seemed to lack something of the old awesome divine
+right. They seemed more ordinarily human.
+
+“They let Lucille Hardcome walk on them,” I told David, but of course
+David would not admit that.
+
+“Lucille is very kind to 'Thusia,” he said.
+
+Mary Derling, having put up with Derling's infidelities long enough,
+divorced him. Her son Ben was now a young man. Mary herself was well
+along in the forties, and her abiding love for David Dean glowed in good
+works year after year, and in the affection of Mary, 'Thusia and Rose
+Hinch David felt himself blessed above most men. Rose was the best nurse
+in Riverbank, and those who could secure her services felt that the
+efficiency of their physician was doubled. She asked an honest wage from
+those who could afford it, but she gave much of her time to David's
+sick poor, and many hours to investigating poverty and distress. In
+this latter work Mary Derling aided, and it was at 'Thusia's bedside
+the consultations were held; for 'Thusia was no longer able to leave her
+bed, except on days when she sat in an easy-chair, or could be carried
+to a downstair couch. In a long, thin book 'Thusia kept a record of
+needs and deeds. David called it his “laundry list.” In this were
+entered the souls and bodies that needed “doing over”--souls to be
+scrubbed and bodies to be starched and creases to be ironed out of both.
+
+'Thusia was a secretary of charities always to be found at home. Charity
+work soon grows wearisome, but 'Thusia could make the least interesting
+cases attractive as she told of them. Each page of her “laundry list”
+ was a romance. 'Thusia not only interested herself but she kept interest
+alive in others.
+
+And Lucille! Lucille tried honestly enough to be useful in the way Rose
+and Mary were useful. As the years passed she kept up all her numberless
+activities, glowing as a social queen, pushing forward as a political
+factor, driving the church trustees, ordering the music and cowing the
+choir--she was in everything and leading everything, and yet she was
+discontented. More and more, each year, she came to believe that David
+Dean was the man of all men whose good opinion she desired, and it
+annoyed her to think that he valued the quiet services of Mary Derling
+and Rose Hinch more than anything Lucille had done or, perhaps, could
+do. She was like a child in her desire for words of commendation from
+David.
+
+As David Dean mounted the three steps that led up to the bank where B.
+C. Burton spent his time as president, Lucille was awaiting him in his
+study in the little white manse on the hill.
+
+
+
+
+XIII. A SURPRISE
+
+
+B. C. BURTON, the president of the Riverside National Bank, was a
+widower, and led an existence that can be described as calmly and
+good-naturedly detached. He was a younger son of a father long since
+dead, who had established the Burton, Corley & Co. bank, which had
+prospered, and finally taken a national banking charter. Corley had
+furnished the capital for the original bank, and the Burton family had
+run the business. B. C.--he was usually called by his initials--had
+married Corley's only daughter, and had thus acquired the Corley money.
+After his wife's death his wealth was estimated as a hundred thousand
+dollars; the truth was that old Corley had invested badly, and left his
+daughter no more than twenty-five thousand. At the time of his marriage
+B. C. owned nothing but his share of the bank stock, worth about twenty
+thousand.
+
+In spite of his reputation as a banker, B. C. was a poor business man
+where his own affairs were concerned. During his wife's life his own
+bank stock increased in value to about twenty-five thousand dollars, but
+he managed to lose all of the twenty-five thousand his wife had brought
+him, and when she died he had nothing but his house and his bank stock.
+In the four or five years since his wife's death he had continued his
+misfortunes, and had pledged fifteen thousand dollars' worth of his bank
+stock to old Peter Grimsby, one of the bank's directors. Thus, while
+Riverbank counted B. C. Burton a wealthy man, the bank president was
+worth a scant ten thousand dollars, plus a house worth five or six
+thousand. The bank stock brought him six per cent, and his salary was
+two thousand; he had an income of about twenty-six hundred dollars which
+the town imagined to be ten or fifteen thousand.
+
+Being a childless widower he could live well enough on his income in
+Riverbank, but, had it not been for his placidity of temper, he would
+have been a discontented and disappointed man. Even so his first half
+hour after awaking in the morning was a bad half hour. He opened his
+eyes feeling depressed and weary, with his life an empty hull. For half
+an hour he felt miserable and hopeless; but he had a sound body, and a
+cup of coffee and solid breakfast set him up for the day; he became a
+good-natured machine for the transaction of routine banking business.
+
+Some twist of humor or bit of carelessness had marked the choice of the
+names of the two Burton boys. The elder had been named Andrew D., which
+in itself was nothing odd; neither was there anything odd that the
+younger should have been given the name of the father's partner,
+Benjamin Corley; but the town was quick to adopt the initials--A. D.
+and B. C.--and to see the humor in them, and the two men were ever after
+known by them. When they were boys they were nicknamed Anna (for Anno
+Domini) and Beef (for Before Christ), and the names were not ill-chosen.
+The elder boy was as nervous as a girl, and Ben was as stolid as an ox.
+They never got along well together and, soon after B. C. entered the
+bank, A. D.--who had been cashier--left it and went into retail trade.
+
+A. D. was the type of man that seems smeared all over with whatever he
+undertakes. Had he been a baker he would have been covered with flour
+and dough from head to foot--dough would have been in his hair. Had
+B. C. been a baker he would have emerged from his day's work without
+a fleck of flour upon him. A. D. blundered into things, and became
+saturated with them; B. C.'s affairs were like the skin of a ripe
+tangerine--they clothed him but were hardly an integral part of him.
+Life's rind fitted him loosely.
+
+When David Dean entered the bank, B. C. was closeted with a borrower,
+and the dominie was obliged to wait a few minutes. He stood at the
+window, his hands clasped behind him, gazing into the street, and trying
+to arrange the words in which he would ask the banker-trustee for the
+advance he desired. The door to the banker's private office opened, the
+customer came out, and the door closed again. A minute later the cashier
+told David he might enter.
+
+B. C. was sitting at his desk, coatless but immaculate. He turned and
+smiled.
+
+“Good morning, Mr. Dean,” he said. “Another good com day. You and I
+don't get much pleasure out of this hot weather, I am afraid, but it is
+money in the farmers' pockets.”
+
+He did nothing to make David's way easy. His very smiling good nature
+made it more difficult. David plunged headlong into his business.
+
+“Mr. Burton, could you--do you think the trustees would--grant me a
+further advance on my salary!”
+
+The banker showed no surprise, no resentment. “I dislike to ask it,”
+ David continued. “I feel that the trustees have already done all that
+they should. It is my place to keep within my income--that I know--but I
+seem to have fallen behind in the last few years. I have had to run into
+debt to some extent. There is one debt that should be paid; it should be
+paid immediately; otherwise--”
+
+“Don't stand,” said B. C., touching a vacant chair with his finger. “Of
+course you know I am only one of the trustees, Mr. Dean. I should not
+pretend to give you an answer without consulting the others, but I
+suppose I was made a trustee because I know something of business. They
+seem to have left the finances of the church rather completely in my
+hands; I think I have brought order out of chaos. Here is the balance
+sheet, brought down to the first of the month.” David took the paper and
+stared at it, but the figures meant nothing to him. He felt already that
+Burton meant to refuse his request “Let me see it,” B. C. said, and his
+very method of handing the statement to David and then taking it again
+for examination was characteristic. “Why, we are in better shape than
+I thought! This is very good indeed! We are really quite ahead of
+ourselves; you see here we have paid five hundred dollars on the
+mortgage a full six months before the time the payment was due. And here
+is payment made for roofing the church, and paid promptly. Usually we
+keep our bills waiting. Then here is the advance made you. This is a
+very good statement, Mr. Dean. And now let me see; cash on hand! Well,
+that item is low; very low! Twenty-eight dollars and forty cents. You
+understand that, do you! That is the cash we have available for all
+purposes.”
+
+He had not refused David; he had shown him that his request could not be
+granted.
+
+“Of course, then,” said David, “the trustees have nothing to advance,
+even were they so inclined. I thank you quite as much.”
+
+“Now, don't hurry,” said B. C. “You don't come in here often, and when
+you do I ought to be able to spare you a few minutes. Sit down. At our
+last meeting the trustees were speaking of your salary. We think you
+should receive more than you are getting; if the church could afford it
+we would arrange it at once, but you know how closely we have to figure
+to make ends meet.”
+
+“I have not complained,” said David.
+
+“Indeed not! But we think of these things; we don't forget you, you see.
+I dare say we know almost as much about your affairs as you know.
+I believe I can tell you the name of the creditor you spoke of. It's old
+Herwig, isn't it!”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“I thought so,” said B. C. “Of course I knew you traded there, and it
+is a good thing to patronize our own church members, but it is a pity
+we haven't a live grocer in the church. I had to leave Herwig; my
+housekeeper couldn't get what she wanted there. Now, just let me tell
+you something, and put your mind at rest: if you paid Herwig whatever
+you owe him you might as well take the money down to the river and throw
+it in! Herwig is busted right now, and he knows it. If he collected
+every cent due him he would be just as insolvent. He is dead of dry rot;
+it is all over but the funeral. The only reason his creditors haven't
+closed him up is that it is not worth their while; I don't suppose
+they'll get a cent on the dollar. So don't worry about him--he's
+hopeless.”
+
+“But what I owe him--”
+
+“Wouldn't be a drop in the bucket!” said B. C. “Don't worry about it.
+Don't think about it. And now, about a possible increase in your salary;
+I think we may be able to manage that before long. Lucille Hardcome
+seems to be taking a great interest in your outside church work.”
+
+“She seems eager to give all the help she can.”
+
+“That's good! She is a wealthy woman, Mr. Dean; wealthier than you
+imagine, I believe. Do what you reasonably can to keep up her interest.
+She has done very little for the church yet in a money way. She can
+easily afford to do as much as Mary Derling is doing. Of course we
+understand she has had great expense in all these things she is doing;
+that house done over and all; she has probably used more than her
+income, but she can't get much more into the house without building an
+addition. She is thoroughly Riverbank now, and we have let her take a
+prominent part in the church and the Sunday school; she owes it to us to
+give liberally. I think she could give a thousand dollars a year, if she
+chose, and not feel it. The hundred she gives now is nothing; suppose we
+say five hundred dollars. If we can get her to give five hundred we can
+safely add two hundred and fifty of it to your salary. And you deserve
+it, and ought to have it. If we can add that two hundred and fifty
+dollars to your salary during my trusteeship I shall be delighted. We
+all feel that way--all the trustees.”
+
+“That is more than I ever dared hope,” said David. “It is kind of you to
+think of it.”
+
+“I wish we could make it a thousand,” said B. C. sincerely. “Well, I
+don't want to keep you all day in this hot office. Just humor Lucille
+Hardcome a little; she's high-handed but I think she means all right.”
+
+David went out. The sun was hotter than ever, but for a block or two he
+did not notice it. Two hundred and fifty dollars increase! It would mean
+that in a few years he could be even with the world again! Then, as he
+toiled up the hot hill, his immediate needs returned to his mind, and
+he thought of Herwig. Whether the old grocer must inevitably fail in
+business or not the debt David owed him was an honestly contracted debt,
+and the old man had a right to expect payment; all David's creditors had
+a right to expect payment. His horror of debt returned in full force.
+There was not a place where he could look for a dollar; he felt bound
+and constrained, guilty, shamed.
+
+Before the manse Lucille Hardcome's low-hung carriage stood. He entered
+the house.
+
+“David!” called 'Thusia from the sitting room, and he hung his hat on
+the rack and went in to her.
+
+“Lucille is waiting in the study,” said 'Thusia. “She has been waiting
+an hour; Alice is with her.”
+
+“'Thusia, what has happened!” he cried, for his wife's face showed she
+had received a blow.
+
+“Oh, David! David!” she exclaimed. “It is Alice! She is engaged!”
+
+“Not Alice! Not our Alice!” cried David. “But--”
+
+'Thusia burst into tears. She reached for his hand, and clung to it.
+
+“Oh, David! To Lanny Welsh--do you know anything about him!” she wept.
+“I don't know anything about him at all, except he was a bartender, and
+Roger knows him.”
+
+“Our Alice! Lanny Welsh!” said David, “But nothing of the sort can be
+allowed, 'Thusia. It cannot be!”
+
+“Oh, I hoped you would say that!” said 'Thusia. “But don't wait now. Go
+to Lucille at once!”
+
+So David bent and kissed his wife, and walked across the hall to his
+study.
+
+
+
+
+XIV. LUCILLE HELPS
+
+
+THE shock of his wife's news regarding Alice had the effect of a slap
+with a cold towel, and momentarily surprised David Dean out of the weary
+depression into which the heat of the day, his inability to secure an
+advance on his salary and the delay in his midday meal had dragged him.
+A blow of a whip could not have aroused him more. Like many men who live
+an active mental life, he was accustomed to digging spurs into his
+jaded brain when and where necessity arose, forcing himself to
+attack unexpected problems with a vigor that, a moment before, seemed
+impossible. Neither he nor 'Thusia had had the slightest intimation that
+Alice was in love, or in any way in danger of engaging herself to Lanny
+Welsh. The event, as David saw it, would be most unfortunate. He had
+heard Roger mention the young fellow's name now and then, and perhaps
+Alice had discussed Lanny's ball playing with Roger in the presence of
+her parents; David could not remember. He entered his study briskly. The
+matters in hand were simple enough; he would get through with Lucille
+Hardcome as quickly as possible, remembering Burton's suggestion that
+some attention should be paid her. This would release Alice for the
+moment, and she could get the dinner on the table, for the dominie was
+thoroughly hungry. After dinner he would have a talk with Alice, and he
+had no doubt she would explain her engagement, and that he would find it
+less serious than 'Thusia imagined.
+
+When David entered the study Alice, who had been curled up in his
+easy-chair, unwound herself and prepared for flight. She was in a happy
+mood, and kissed Lucille and then her father.
+
+“No doubt you know that Dominie Dean is about starved, Alice,” her
+father said. “I'll be ready for dinner when dinner is ready for me. If
+Mrs. Hardcome and I are not through when you are ready for me perhaps
+she will take a bite with us.”
+
+“I shan't be long,” said Lucille. “I waited because--”
+
+Alice slipped from the room and closed the door and Lucille, as if
+Alice's going had rendered unnecessary the giving of a reason, left her
+sentence unfinished. She was sitting in the dominie's desk chair with
+one braceleted arm resting on the desk, her hand on a sheet of sermon
+paper that lay there. She picked it up now.
+
+“I couldn't help seeing this, Mr. Dean,” she said. “'Thusia was asleep
+when I came, and Alice brought me in here and left me when she went
+about her dinner-getting. I saw it without intending to.”
+
+David colored. The paper contained a schedule of his debts, scribbled
+down that morning. He held out his hand.
+
+“It was not meant to be seen,” he said. “I should have put it in the
+drawer.”
+
+Lucille ignored the hand.
+
+“It was because I saw it I waited,” she said. “This is what has been
+worrying you.”
+
+“Worrying me?”
+
+“Of course I have noticed it,” she said. “You have been so different
+the last month or two; I knew you had something on your mind, and I knew
+dear 'Thusia was no worse. You must not worry. You are too important;
+we all depend on you too much to have you worrying about such things.
+Please wait! I know how stingy the church is with you--yes, stingy is
+the word!--and Mr. Burton with no thought but to pay the church debt,
+whether you starve or not. These financier-trustees--”
+
+“But the church is not stingy, Mrs. Hardcome--indeed it is not. I have
+been careless--”
+
+“Nonsense! On your salary? With a sick wife and two children and all the
+expenses of a house? Well, you shall not worry about it any longer. I'll
+take care of this, Mr. Dean.”
+
+She folded the paper and put it in her purse. “But I can't let you do
+this,” said David. “I--do you mean you intend to pay for me? I can't
+permit that, of course. I know how kind you are to suggest it, but I
+certainly cannot allow any such thing.”
+
+Lucille laughed.
+
+“Please listen, Mr. Dean! Do you think I haven't seen Mr. Burton looking
+at me with his thousand-dollar eyes! I know what he expects of me; I've
+heard hints, you may be sure. And no doubt he is right; I ought to give
+more to the church than I do. And I mean to give more; I meant to give a
+thousand dollars--subscribe that much annually--and I have been waiting
+for the trustees to come to me. So you see, don't you, I am doing no
+more than I intended? Only I choose to give it direct to you.”
+
+David dropped into his easy-chair and leaned his head against his
+slender hand, as was his unconscious habit when he thought. To get his
+debts paid would mean everything to him, and, as Lucille explained it,
+she would be merely giving what she had intended to give. But had he a
+right to take the sum when she had meant to give it to the church! If
+she gave it to the church the trustees, as Burton had said, would set
+aside a part for him as an increase of his salary, but Burton was clear
+enough in suggesting that two hundred and fifty dollars a year more
+was what they thought Dean should receive out of whatever Lucille might
+give. If he took the entire thousand would he not be breaking a tacit
+agreement made with the banker! One thing was certain, he would not
+accept charity from Lucille or from anyone; it would be disgraceful.
+And if the thousand dollars went through the proper channel the most
+he could expect was a quarter of the sum. If he took it all he would be
+robbing the church. He raised his head.
+
+“No,” he said firmly, “I can't take it. I can't permit it.”
+
+“Then I give not a cent more to the church than I am giving now!” said
+Lucille. “You see I have made up my mind. This year I want you to have
+the thousand, Mr. Dean: Next year, and other years, the trustees can do
+as they please.”
+
+There could be no doubt that Lucille meant it. She was headstrong and
+accustomed to overriding opposition: to having her own way. The horns of
+the dominie's dilemma were two: he must sacrifice his proper pride and
+take her money--which he could not bring himself to do--or he must lose
+the church the additional income he had been urged by Burton to try to
+secure. His duty to his manhood demanded that he refuse Lucille's offer;
+his duty to his church demanded that he secure her increased monetary
+support if possible.
+
+“You are kind, and I know your suggestion is kindly meant, Mrs.
+Hardcome,” he said. “I admit that my debts do worry me--they worry me
+more than I dare say--but, if your generosity is such as I believe it to
+be, my case is not hopeless.” He smiled. “May I speak as frankly as you
+have spoken? Then, I do _not_ find my salary quite enough for my needs,
+but--except for one creditor--no one is pressing me. I, and not they, am
+doing the worrying. Well, my trustees have promised me an ample increase
+as soon as the church income warrants it. To be quite frank, if you
+should give--as you have suggested--a thousand dollars annually, or
+even half that sum, my stipend will be increased two hundred and fifty
+dollars. No, wait one moment! With such economies as I can initiate that
+would permit me to be quite out of debt in a very few years.”
+
+“If I were in your place,” said Lucille frankly, “I would prefer to get
+out of debt to-day.”
+
+“But I repeat,” said David, “I cannot take the money.”
+
+“Very well,” said Lucille haughtily, and she opened her purse and placed
+the schedule of debts on the dominie's desk. She arose and David also.
+“I'll tell you plainly, Mr. Dean, that I think you are foolish.”
+
+“Not foolish but, perhaps, reluctant to accept personal charity,” said
+Dean.
+
+Lucille was not stupid, but she looked into his eyes some time before
+she spoke.
+
+“Oh, it is that way, is it!” she said cheerfully, “Yes, I understand!
+But that is quite beside the point I had in mind. I did not want you to
+feel that at all! Of course you would feel that! It is quite right.
+But we can arrange all that very easily, Mr. Dean; we can make it a
+loan--there is no reason why you should not accept a loan as well as any
+other man. I'll lend you the money--temporarily--and when your increase
+of salary comes you can pay it back. With interest, if you wish.”
+
+“If I could make the payments quarterly, on my salary days--” hesitated
+David.
+
+“Certainly!” cooed Lucille, delighted to have won her point. “It can be
+that way.”
+
+“I should like the transaction to be regular; a note with interest.
+Seven per cent is usual, I believe.”
+
+“Certainly. You see,” she beamed, “how easy it is for reasonable people
+to arrange things when they understand what they are trying to get at!
+And now I must go; you are starved. I will come again this afternoon;
+I will bring you the money and the note. You see we are quite
+businesslike, Mr. Dean. Well, I have to be; I manage my own affairs.
+I'll just run in a moment to see 'Thusia before I go. And--I almost
+forgot it--congratulations!”
+
+“Congratulations?”
+
+“Alice! She told me! I am so glad!”
+
+David did not know, on the spur of the moment, what to say. Before he
+could formulate words Lucille, jingling her bracelets and rustling her
+silks, had swept voluminously from the room.
+
+
+
+
+XV. LANNY
+
+
+ON those days when 'Thusia was able to be downstairs Alice set a small
+dinner table in the sitting room so that she might enjoy the company of
+her husband and children. When David entered the sitting room Lucille
+had departed, and Roger was there, waiting for his belated dinner.
+Luckily his labors were not of sufficient importance to require prompt
+hours--his dinner hour sometimes lasted the best half of the afternoon.
+As David entered the room Alice ran to him, and threw her arms around
+him; he could do no less than embrace her, for anything else would have
+been like a slap in the face. He kissed her, but his face was grave.
+
+“Father! Mother told you?” Alice said, still holding him. “Aren't you
+surprised! Why,” she pouted, “you don't look a bit happy! But I know
+why--you don't know Lanny. They don't know him, do they, pop?”
+
+Her brother, who had already taken his place at the small table,
+fidgeted. He was hungry.
+
+“He's all right!” he said. “Lanny's fine.” Somehow the young Roger's
+approval did not carry far with David.
+
+“I think,” he said, “we are all hungry. We will have our food, and
+discuss Alice's affairs later. I know I am too hungry to want to talk.”
+
+“And you aren't even going to congratulate me!” pouted Alice playfully.
+
+The dominie cut short further talk by saying grace, following it by the
+operation of serving food from the dishes that were grouped around his
+plate, and then:
+
+“How is your grandfather, Roger?”
+
+“Fine as a fiddle, father. And, I say! we are going to play Derlingport
+this Saturday. We've arranged a series of three games, unless one or the
+other of us wins the first two. We play the first here, and the second
+in Derlingport. Honestly, I am glad to play a nine I'm a bit afraid
+of; this licking the spots off the grangers is getting monotonous.
+Derlingport has a pitcher that knows his business--Watts. But I'll
+chance Lanny against him any day.”
+
+“I should think so!” said Alice.
+
+“Oh, you!” said Roger. “Because he has curly hair? A lot you know about
+pitchers.”
+
+“Well, I'm going to learn,” said Alice.
+
+David broke the thread of the conversation. “'Thusia,” he said, “I have
+arranged to clear up the bills we owe.”
+
+“David!” his wife exclaimed, her pale cheeks coloring with pleasure.
+“Did the trustees grant the advance on your salary?”
+
+“No, hardly that,” he answered. “I saw Burton, but there is no money
+available. He was very kind. The trustees are going to give me an
+increase of salary--two hundred and fifty dollars more. It will be a
+great help. You see, with the increase, I can pay off the loan I am
+contracting in two or three years.”
+
+'Thusia looked frightened.
+
+“A loan? Are you borrowing money, David?”
+
+“Lucille Hardcome offered it; she practically forced me to accept it,
+'Thusia. It was all I could do to keep her from forcing it on me as a
+gift. That I would not hear of, of course.”
+
+“How much are you borrowing?” asked 'Thusia, with an intake of breath.
+
+“It will be about a thousand dollars; a thousand, I think.”
+
+“She could hand you ten thousand and not feel it, from what I hear,”
+ said Roger.
+
+“'Thusia, you don't approve?” asked David. “Oh, I wish it could have
+been anyone but Lucille!” said 'Thusia. “It seems so--But I know so
+little of money matters. You would do what was best, of course, David.
+It will be a great blessing to feel we are not making the tradesmen wait
+for what is honestly theirs.”
+
+“I should have consulted you,” David said, entirely without irony, for
+he did consult her on most matters of importance. “It is not too late to
+decline even now. I have not signed the note. She is to bring the money
+this afternoon. But, if I refuse--”
+
+He related his conversation with Lucille, as well as he could recall it.
+
+“I hardly see how you could refuse,” 'Thusia admitted. “If she was
+angered she would do something to show her displeasure. Deep as she is
+in the church affairs I hardly feel that she is with us heart and soul
+yet. She always seems like an outsider taking an interest because--I
+shouldn't say it--she likes the prominence. That is why I wish you could
+have had the money from another. I'm sure Mary would have lent it.”
+
+“And of all the women I know,” said David, “Mary is the last I should
+wish to borrow from. Had I my choice I would choose an entire outsider;
+the more completely it is a business transaction the more pleased I am.”
+
+No more was said then. Roger hurried away, not because his job called
+him, but because, as catcher of his nine, it was his duty to keep in
+practice; and some members of the nine might be on the levee willing to
+pitch to him. Alice still waited.
+
+“Will you let me speak with your mother awhile, daughter!” David said.
+“Then we will call you.”
+
+“Shall I take the dishes out first!” asked Alice.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+'Thusia raised herself a little on her pillows when Alice had quitted
+the room, and David drew a chair to the side of her couch. For a few
+moments they were silent.
+
+“How did it happen!” David asked finally.
+
+“David, you must not think unkindly of her; Alice is such a child--such
+a dear girl! She has no worldliness; how should she have with you and me
+for her parents! I think I am to blame if she has chosen wrongly. I am
+afraid I have neglected her, David.”
+
+“What an idea, 'Thusia! That is preposterous. Of course, I do not think
+unkindly of her; but I do think she has chosen foolishly, as girls
+sometimes will.”
+
+“Yes, but I mean what I say, David. I am tied here, of course, but I
+have given her so much freedom. I have trusted to her instinct to choose
+suitable companions, when I should have remembered how careless and
+foolish I was when I was her age.”
+
+“What nonsense, dear!” said David. “If anyone is to blame it is myself.
+How could you do any more than you have done, kept close here as you
+are? How serious is it, 'Thusia?”
+
+“I have hardly had time to decide; I am afraid it is very serious. She
+was all ecstasy and happiness until she saw I was not as happy as she
+was. I am afraid I let her see it too plainly. We must not let her think
+we are angry with her, David; she is very much in love with him. Oh, she
+praised him as a girl will praise a lover--her first lover!”
+
+“I suppose she met him through Roger,” said David thoughtfully.
+
+“No,” 'Thusia said. “I imagine Alice rather scorns Roger's ball-playing
+friends. I think Lanny Welsh called something after her one evening when
+she was passing the _Eagle_ office--passing the alley there. He thought
+she was some other girl, I suppose. She was furious; she thought it was
+the rudest thing she had ever known, but the next time she passed he
+stopped her and apologized. She thinks it was noble of him. After that
+he tipped his hat whenever she passed, and she nodded to him. Then
+Roger introduced them. Lanny Welsh asked him to, I suppose. Now they are
+engaged.”
+
+David rested his head on his hand, and was silent. 'Thusia watched his
+face.
+
+“It is unfortunate; most unfortunate,” he said wearily.
+
+“David, do you know anything about him!” 'Thusia asked.
+
+“Only hearsay,” he answered.
+
+“Has he been a bartender!”
+
+“I have heard that. You know what his father is--little better than a
+blackmailer.”
+
+“David, what can we do?” asked 'Thusia.
+
+“I don't know,” he answered. “No doubt she would give him up if we asked
+it.”
+
+“I'm not so sure of that,” said 'Thusia. “She is a good girl, but you
+do not realize how she loves the boy--or thinks she loves him. She might
+think we were unjust to him.”
+
+What she implied David knew. Alice was, above all else, loyal. The
+very intimation that Lanny Welsh lacked friends might strengthen her
+partisanship, for she was like her father in having always a kindly
+feeling for the under dog. The most uncompromised earthly happiness is
+not the portion of those who feel for the under dog, for some dog is
+always under. If a person is to take any interest in the world's dog
+fights, and seek enjoyment therefrom, he must be thoroughly callous,
+and not care a snap of his fingers what happens to the under dog. This
+hard-hearted placidity must yield those who possess it a fund of
+unvexed joy; most of us find our joy alloyed by our pity for Fortune's
+unfavorites. A fair amount of carelessness regarding the under dog
+is necessary for the most complete worldly success; and our dominie,
+seeking to know himself, felt that if he had desired to prosper greatly
+in a worldly way he should have been born without his keen desire to see
+the under dog on top for a while, or at least without his inclination to
+prevent all dog fights.
+
+On the whole he did not think, however, that the callous-hearted got the
+best out of life. The tough tympanum of a bass drum yields one sound,
+and the tom-tom may be a fine instrument for war or joy dances, but a
+delicately attuned violin quivers with more varied vibrations, and
+even the minor chords must satisfy some of its fibers. In the museum
+of eternity the tom-tom may have a place as a curiosity--as the musical
+instrument of a crude people--but even a child can imagine its one note;
+the fingers of the virtuoso tingle to touch the glass-enclosed violin,
+and the imagination pleasures in the thought of the notes of joy and
+sorrow it has given forth in its day.
+
+Youth--as Alice--when born and brought up with a pity for the despised
+is apt to carry the good quality over the line so far that it becomes
+unreasonable. There is such a thing as innate devilishness that deserves
+chastisement; some of the things other men scorn deserve our scorn also;
+some men and women, too. But a girl in love, as Alice was, or thought
+she was, is not a very reasonable being. With her love as a certainty,
+she scorns the past and sees perfection in the future. Young lovers are
+all egotists to the extent of thinking: “If I chose him he must be good
+at heart and, no doubt, his past weakness was because he had not known
+me.” In herself she sees his needed opportunity, and her loyalty to her
+ideal of herself and to him resents the interference of those who would
+interpose obstacles. Alice, being by nature loyal, and by nature and
+training inclined to pity, might easily be driven to a blind and gently
+berserk, but none the less everlasting, battle for Lanny Welsh by the
+very opposition that sought to win her away from him.
+
+David was the less inclined to do anything instantly because his sense
+of justice was so strong. He knew too little about Lanny Welsh to
+condemn the young man in his own mind without further facts. Had he had
+the giving he would not have presented Alice to anyone like Lanny, for
+he would have chosen some youth he knew better--and that meant Mary
+Derling's boy Ben--but, having his innate desire to do justice to all
+men, and as Alice had already chosen Lanny, David felt he should learn
+more about Lanny before he made an absolute decision to oppose his
+daughter's choice. He knew enough of men and life to believe the tags
+the world put on young fellows were not always the proper tags. If the
+match was to be opposed the method of opposition to be adopted would
+depend on his knowledge of Lanny's character and circumstances, and as
+yet he knew little--too little to base an active opposition upon.
+
+“What have you said to her, 'Thusia!” he asked.
+
+“I told her I was surprised, and that I must speak to you before I could
+be sure what to say.”
+
+This was close enough to the fact. The saying had taken an hour or more
+and had been flavored by affectionate weepings and embraces, but in what
+she told David 'Thusia did not miss the fact far.
+
+“I'm glad of that,” he said. “I'll ask Alice to come in.”
+
+She came, rosy-cheeked and tremulously happy, and the interview left her
+happy and less tremulous. Of her father's affection she was sure, and of
+his justice she never had a doubt. She was not surprised that he should
+wish to know more of Lanny before he ventured to feel enthusiastic about
+the engagement, and she was so sure Lanny was the best of men that she
+had no fear of the final result of her father's gentle investigations.
+From an interview so kindly, and permeated with affection, she went back
+to the kitchen happily.
+
+“I imagine you'll have very little trouble in finding out all about
+him,” 'Thusia said, and then, her bravery shattering itself a little
+against her motherly ambition: “David, I'm sure it is a mistake! I'm
+sure she should not marry him!”
+
+“I am afraid Alice has been too hasty,” said David.
+
+They both meant the same thing: nothing more unfortunate could have
+happened. 'Thusia gave words to one of the reasons when she added: “Mary
+will be so disappointed!”
+
+Not a word had ever been said on the subject, but the tacit hope had
+long been existent in the hearts of Mary and the two Deans that Alice
+and Ben Derling might become lifemates. Until Alice had dropped the
+bombshell of her engagement into the placidly intrenched hope everything
+had seemed trending that way. There was no question that Ben admired
+Alice, and Alice had seemed fond enough of Ben.
+
+Although David had never allowed the filmy intuition to become an actual
+thought, the gossamer suggestion had floated across his mind more than
+once that it would be a good thing if Alice and Ben married. He thought,
+boldly enough, that it would be a suitable match in some ways--marrying
+in the same faith; marrying one who would be a good husband; marrying
+one whose social position in Riverbank would increase rather than lower
+David's own capacity for good in the community. Of the marriage as a
+financial matter beneficial to himself and 'Thusia he refused to think,
+but that gossamer ghost of thought would come floating by at times: an
+alliance with the Derling wealth would make old age less to be dreaded;
+somewhere there would be food and winter warmth and a nook by the
+fireside, where he and 'Thusia might end their days without dire
+penury in case, as is so often the case with ministers, he outlived
+his usefulness. He felt the thought, gossamer light as it was, to be
+unworthy, but it came unbidden, and there was comfort in it. And no
+man is a worse man for not wishing to end his life in an almshouse.
+Certainly no man is a better man for wishing to end his days on the
+Riverbank Poor Farm. The youth, Roger, unluckily, seemed little likely
+to be able to support himself; if Alice married into poverty, or worse,
+the state of the family in days to come threatened to be sad indeed.
+
+But David went back to his study in hopefulness, for all that. Lanny
+Welsh might be better than he feared, and if Lucille Hardcome subscribed
+even half what she had suggested David might be able to keep even with
+the world or even save a little. He had hardly entered his study before
+Lanny Welsh and Alice came tapping on his door.
+
+
+
+
+XVI. AN INTERVIEW
+
+
+IN a small town men find themselves tagged far sooner and far more
+permanently than in the large cities. Let a young fellow attend church
+for a few weeks, behave decently for a year, and get a job as soon
+as one offers, and he is tagged as a “good” young man; thereafter it
+requires quite a little rascality to convince people he is otherwise.
+The small town is like a pack of cards; the rank of the components being
+once established, it is vain for them to attempt other values. Let
+young Bud Smith start out as a Jack-of-all-trades, and he is expected
+to remain one; and when he attempts steady work of one kind, his efforts
+are talked about as something phenomenal. If Bill Jones, the contractor,
+gives Bud a job it is considered a bit of eccentricity on Jones' part;
+what reason can a man have for taking on a Jack-of-all-trades as a
+steady carpenter! It might be just as well to be a little careful
+in making contracts with Jones; it looks as if he was a little too
+easy-going! Thus Jones gets his tag, and Bud Smith does not lose his.
+They cling.
+
+Something of this sort had happened to Lanny Welsh. His father, old P.
+K. Welsh, was an oldtime character in Riverbank. For years he had been
+a familiar figure, trudging about town with his stooped shoulders, his
+long and greasy black coat and his long and pointed beard. His head
+was a little too large for his body, and his eyes, seen through his
+spectacles, were apparently too large for his face. They were blue. His
+hair often hung down upon his collar. Once a year or so he had it cut,
+and when he had it cut he had it cut short enough to last awhile. The
+change was as noticeable as if a large building had been tom down from
+one of the prominent Main Street comers.
+
+In the side pockets of old P. K. Welsh's coat were always bundles of
+folded newspapers--his pockets bulged with them. He was a newspaper man.
+Day after day and year after year, old P. K. Welsh trudged up and down
+the two business streets of Riverbank, from eight in the morning until
+four or five in the afternoon, and so he had trudged for years. Thursday
+was an exception, for on Thursday he “published,” running off the one or
+two hundred copies of the _Declarator_ that constituted his edition. The
+paper was a weekly, five cents a copy, one dollar a year, and the total
+income from subscriptions was probably never more than one hundred
+dollars. This did not pay for his paper and ink, and he tried to make up
+the difference in advertising income; but as an advertising medium
+the _Declarator_ was not worth the paper on which it was printed, and
+everyone knew it. He spent his life nagging the merchants into throwing
+him crumbs of petty patronage. His credit was nil, he never had any
+cash, he gave all his advertising in exchange for trade. When he sallied
+forth in the morning he carried a list of the groceries his wife needed;
+getting them for her meant nagging some grocer until he agreed to send
+up the groceries in exchange for a few inches of unwanted advertising
+space in the _Declarator_. Old P. K. grew wise in wiles. He knew the
+hour when Beemer's drivers came back to the store with their orders for
+the day, when Beemer and all his clerks would be madly measuring and
+tying and filling baskets. That was when old P. K. would appear. To get
+rid of him the grocer would often scribble down his order, and figure
+the bill as sufficiently repaid by the time saved through getting rid of
+old P. K. so easily.
+
+The _Declarator_ itself was an example of a good idea gone wrong through
+stress of necessity. The sheet was small, four pages, often filled with
+plate matter, and the original matter was set in the most amateurish
+manner. The old type from which it was set was worn until some of the
+letters were mere smudges of black. From time to time old P. K., being
+in funds, would buy a few pounds of cast-off type from the _Eagle_, and
+this mixed with his worn supply, gave the paper a bizarre, hit-and-miss
+appearance. Old P. K. did not bother about reading proof. The paper came
+out with all the errors, with letters of one font mixed with letters
+of another font, and with some paragraphs set in large type and some
+in small. It was the column headed “Briefs,” however, that tagged the
+_Declarator_.
+
+It was known that old P. K. had come from somewhere in Kansas, and it
+was understood that he had known John Brown, the famous John Brown,
+whose soul goes marching on in the ballad. Welsh came to Riverbank in
+the years following the war, and started his little paper in opposition
+to the _Eagle_, which was then scarcely larger. Riverbank was once more
+Democratic. The _Declarator_ was violently Republican and violently
+pro-negro. Across the first page, just under the title, P. K. ran the
+motto “All men--white or black--are equal.” He knew his Bible by heart
+and scattered Biblical quotations through his pages, each chosen because
+of its sting. There were but a dozen or twenty negroes in the town, and
+the negro question did not worry anyone, and P. K. Welsh's loyalty was
+an asset. Although the Republicans were in a helpless minority they were
+glad to have an organ, and the _Declarator_ did fairly well.
+
+Time passed and the _Eagle_ blossomed from a weekly into a daily.
+It contracted for telegraph news of the outside world. A group of
+Republicans started the _Daily Star_, staunchly but sanely Republican,
+and the _Declarator_ slumped into the position of an unneeded, unwanted
+sheet. A few of the old-time, grit-incrusted Republicans, who believed
+every Democrat was destined for hell fire, still took the _Declarator_;
+the other subscribers dropped it. Old P. K. grew bitter; his
+subscription book became his list of friends and enemies. Those whose
+names once appeared on the list, or had ever appeared on it, and who
+canceled their subscriptions, became the recipients of his hatred. Welsh
+brooded over them and waited. Sooner or later he spat venom at them in
+the column headed “Briefs.”
+
+To anyone not acquainted with Welsh the _Declarator_ appeared to be a
+blackmail sheet. It was not. Old P. K. was firm in the belief that he
+was doing God's work and that the _Declarator_ was meant to be God's
+instrument. He quoted Scripture in his columns to declare that those who
+were not with him were against him, and that those who were against
+him were against God. One by one he took up propaganda that he believed
+righteous, and took them up with all the violence of a fanatic. He was
+the first man in Riverbank to cry aloud for prohibition, but he was also
+the first to shriek anti-Catholicism. He held up good, old Father
+Moran as an Antichrist, and pleaded that he be driven from town. He was
+continually advocating violence in words that to-day would have landed
+him in prison. With his abusive “Briefs” and his inflammatory editorials
+he became, in a small way, a nuisance to the town; with his nagging for
+advertisements he became a nuisance to the merchants. His wife was
+a simple-minded, easy-going creature, wrinkled and with a brown wig
+inclosed in a hair net. The wig looked less like a head covering than
+some sort of brown-hair pudding. On the whole, ridiculous as the
+wig was, it was better than nothing, for Mrs. Welsh was as bald as a
+billiard ball.
+
+These were the parents of Lanny Welsh; they might well have served as
+an excuse for worthlessness in the boy, but this may be said for
+Riverbank--it does not damn the child because of the parents. Lanny
+Welsh won his own tag; at any rate it was given him through what the
+town knew of the boy, and not through what it knew of old P. K. and
+Lanny's mother.
+
+You may imagine Lanny Welsh with bright, blue eyes and curly, brown
+hair, slender, lithe and a little taller than the average. He had a
+smile that would charm the heart out of a misanthrope. When he smiled
+his eyes brightened, the corners of his lips seemed to become alight
+with good nature, and a dimple flickered in his left cheek. As a boy
+he was needlessly cruel, but perhaps no more than the average boy, and
+charmingly sweet in his ways and words when he was not cruel. His mother
+let him tread on her in everything; old P. K. seemed hardly to know the
+boy was alive except when he arose in Biblical wrath over some escapade,
+and beat the boy outrageously with a leathern strap. Lanny howled when
+he was being beaten, and forgot the admonitions that accompanied them as
+soon as he was safe outside the woodshed.
+
+He smiled his way through school, graduated, and went into his father's
+printing office as a matter of course. He worked there six or eight
+months, and left because he could not earn anything either for himself
+or for his father. The old man hardly missed him until, some months
+later, he learned that Lanny was working in a billiard room. He took the
+boy to the woodshed and Lanny knocked him down, not unkindly but firmly,
+and the old man cursed him in good, round, Old Testament phrases, and
+disowned him then and there. It did not worry Lanny in the least. He
+simply declined to take any stock in the curse or the casting off, and
+probably old P. K. himself soon forgot it. Lanny continued to live at
+home.
+
+He worked in Dan Reilly's saloon. All told he worked for Dan Reilly
+three weeks. Two weeks he swept out the place, polished brasses and
+glasses and did odd jobs. One week he stood behind the bar. One week was
+enough of it. The week was in August, and Dan Reilly's saloon was on the
+sunny side of the street; there was no hotter place in Riverbank on a
+sunny August afternoon, and Lanny simply threw up the job on account of
+the discomfort. The one week, however, was enough; he was tagged. He was
+“old crank Welsh's son, the bartender fellow.”
+
+Lanny loafed awhile, and then the _Eagle_ planned and put to press the
+first town directory of Riverbank, and during the preparation of the
+book Lanny found a place in the _Eagle_ rooms setting type. There he
+remained. The typesetters were an easy-going lot; the side door of the
+composing room opened on an alley, and Dan Reilly's saloon was just
+across the alley. The little printer's devil was kept busy on hot days
+running back and forth with a tin beer pail. The _Eagle_ was a morning
+paper, and between the blowing of the shrill six o'clock whistle and the
+time when the reporters turned in their late copy the printers were
+in the habit of sitting in the alley near the street, eating a
+snack, sipping beer and teasing the girls who passed. It was nothing
+particularly bad, but it was sufficiently different from what the bank
+clerks and counter-jumpers did to impress some Riverbankers with the
+idea that the printers were a bad lot. Thus Lanny grew up.
+
+The town had a baseball craze just then, and the _Eagle_ boys formed a
+nine. Van Dusen, the owner of the _Eagle_, gave them suits--red, with
+Eagle Nine in white letters on the shirts--and Lanny, tall, slim and
+quick-witted, was the pitcher. And he could pitch! It was not long
+before he was gathered into the Riverbank Grays when critical games were
+to be played, and he was the first man in Riverbank to receive money for
+playing ball; the Grays gave him five dollars for each game he pitched
+for them. It was when he began pitching for the Grays that Lanny became
+well acquainted with Roger Dean, who was generally known among the ball
+players as “Old Pop Dean,” a compliment to his ball-playing ability,
+since “Old Pop” Anson was then king of the game, and the baseball hero.
+
+Young Roger had been meant for the church, and David and 'Thusia had
+dreamed of seeing him fill a pulpit, but he seemed destined to be
+an idler. The money David had saved with infinite pains to provide a
+college education was thrown away. The boy departed for college
+with blessings enough to carry him through, but he was a born
+idler--good-natured and lovable, but an idler--and long before his
+course was completed it was known that he had come home and, before
+long, it was known he was not going back. The more kindly people said
+he preferred a business career to the ministry; others said he was too
+lazy. He was not a bad boy and had never been; as a young man he had no
+bad habits or desires; he had no ambition.
+
+Had David been a farmer Roger would have been a model son; on a farm he
+would have milked the cows for his father, cut the grain for his father,
+done a man's work for his father. Had David been a merchant Roger would
+have sold goods behind the counter for his father, as well as any other
+man could have sold them, and would have stood in the sun at the door
+in his shirt sleeves when idle, making friends that would have meant
+custom. But in a minister's work there are no cows to milk for father,
+and no goods to sell for father; a minister's son must be bitten by
+ambition or his place in the world is hard to find. He cannot learn his
+father's trade by working at it; and Roger was the sort of youth who
+does only what is easily at hand to do. When he had been home a few
+weeks he was most often to be found on the back lot playing ball with
+smaller and far younger boys, and he was always the first taken when
+sides were being chosen. He was big, and a natural ball player, as Lanny
+was. His place was behind the bat, catching, but he was equally good
+when at the bat. The “curve” and “down shoot” and “up shoot” were just
+coming into the game, but they held no mysteries for Roger. He hit them
+all.
+
+Henry Fragg, 'Thusia's father, now an old man, had given up the agency
+for the packet company he had long held, and now had a small coal office
+on the levee. He took Roger in with him, giving him the utmost the
+business could afford, a meager four dollars weekly--more than Roger
+was worth in the business, which was dead in the summer--and Roger
+transferred his ball playing to the levee, where bigger youths played
+a more spirited game. Before the end of that season Roger was wearing a
+baseball suit, one of the dozen presented by Jacob Cohen, the clothier,
+in consideration of permission to have the shirts bear the words Jacob
+Cohen Riverbank Grays, and Roger was a member of the nine, and its
+catcher. Thereafter, he gave more time than usual to baseball. In the
+rather puritanical community a minister's son playing ball was at first
+something of a shock, but Roger did not play on Sunday and the Grays
+would not play without Roger when the game promised to be close, so the
+result was less Sunday ball. Roger received the credit and baseball came
+to be less frowned on. David himself attended one or two of the Saturday
+games, but some of his church members felt he should not, and, as he
+cared nothing for the game, he went no more. Alice went occasionally
+when the game was important enough to draw large crowds and other nice
+girls were sure to be present.
+
+It is remarkable how easily mortals accept genial incapacity as normal.
+In a year Roger was accepted as a satisfactorily conducted young man,
+permanently dropped into his proper place, and even David and 'Thusia
+no longer fretted about him. He was always present at meals; he was no
+different one day than another; he was cheerful and happy and contented.
+Henry Fragg said he did his work well, which was true enough, but there
+was very little work; once a day or so Roger came in from the sandy ball
+ground, weighed a load of coal, jotted down the figures and went back to
+his “tippy-up” game. There was always the hope that the business would
+grow, and that Roger would eventually succeed his grandfather in the
+coal business and prosper. Neither was there any reason why he should
+not.
+
+But Lanny and Alice are still tapping on David Dean's door.
+
+“Father, this is Lanny,” Alice said, and fled. The dominie looked up to
+see a tall, slender, curly-haired youth with eyes as dear and bright
+as stars. There was no bashfulness in him, and no overconfident
+forwardness. David liked him, and he was sorry to like him so well. He
+had a halfformed hope that Lanny would show himself at first glance to
+be impossible. He was not that so far as his exterior was concerned.
+
+“I don't think we have ever met, Mr. Dean,” he said, extending his hand,
+“but of course I feel as if I knew you--everyone does. Alice told you
+I want to marry her. Well, I do. I suppose I should have spoken to you
+before I spoke to her--that's the right way, isn't it?--but I didn't
+think of that until afterward. I asked her sooner than I meant. I made
+up my mind I'd wait a year--in another year I'll have saved enough to
+begin housekeeping right--but it came out of itself, almost. I liked her
+so much I just couldn't help it; I guess that's the answer.”
+
+“Yes, Alice told me you had asked her,” said David. “She also told me
+she had accepted.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lanny, taking the chair David indicated. “I can't tell you,
+Mr. Dean, how much I think of her--how much--well, I never thought for
+a minute she would have me. Or, I did and I didn't. I thought she would,
+but I didn't believe it would be true. Of course she liked me, but a
+dominie's daughter, and she's such a nice girl--”
+
+“You felt she was not in your class, is that it?” said David.
+
+“That's it,” said Lanny with relief. “You know I tended bar once.”
+
+“So I have heard,” said David.
+
+“That was a mistake,” said Lanny, “and I'm glad I got sick of it when I
+did. It's no business for a man in a town like this, or any town, if he
+wants to be anybody. If you can't be a preacher or a lawyer or a doctor
+you've got to be in business. I'm going to get into business as soon
+as I can. I think there's room in this town for a good job office--job
+printing. A live man ought to make good money. That's what I have in
+mind--an up-to-date job office--as soon as I can raise the money. I'm
+doing pretty well now,” he added, and he mentioned his wage. “I can
+support a wife on that.”
+
+David nodded. He had had no idea compositors were so well paid. He was
+constantly being surprised to learn how many men in the trades were
+receiving more than he himself was paid.
+
+“Yes,” said Lanny, returning to what seemed uppermost in his mind, “you
+hit it when you said Alice was not in my class.”
+
+“But I did not say that,” said David. “I only formulated your own
+thought for you.”
+
+“Yes, that's it,” said Lanny. “I suppose, being a minister, you don't
+take as much stock in classes as some folks do. You care more whether
+a man is good or bad. But I figure a man has got to take some stock in
+such things in this world. I can feel I'm not in Alice's class--yet. My
+folks are not like you and Mrs. Dean. I don't know, but I guess if I was
+marrying a girl out of my family I'd want to feel I was marrying her out
+of the family, not marrying myself into it. That's what worried me, Mr.
+Dean, when I thought of having to talk to you about Alice. I'm making
+good wages, and I'm good for a job any time, and since I've been a compo
+I've been clean enough to be a dominie's son-in-law, but I know I'm not
+in your class. If I was I wouldn't be wanting to get into it. I'd be in.
+But I guess you know a man can't be blamed for the kind of parents he
+has. But, just the same, he is.”
+
+“Have you spoken to your parents!” David asked.
+
+“To mother. Father don't care whether I'm alive or not. Mother--well,
+I'll tell you: I've been giving her part of my wages. She wasn't any
+more pleased than she had to be.”
+
+“Alice says you don't think of being married for a year,” said David.
+
+“Well, I thought that was best,” said Lanny. “We talked it over and--I
+guess you know we've seen some thin picking at our house, Mr. Dean. It
+makes everything go wrong. I don't like it, and I made up my mind long
+ago that if ever I married it wouldn't be until I had at least enough in
+the bank to carry me over the between-jobs times. I've got three hundred
+in the bank now, but I don't want to chance it on that. Alice and I both
+think it is safer to wait a year. I don't know what I can save, but it
+will be every cent I can.”
+
+David appreciated the exclusion of his own home from the example of
+those that had thin picking, although it was evident enough that the
+loverly confidences had included Alice's experience with lack of ready
+money. David arose and gave Lanny his hand again.
+
+“I think the year of waiting is a wise idea, Mr. Welsh,” he said.
+“Either of you may have a change of mind.”
+
+“If I thought that,” said Lanny with a smile, “I'd want to get married
+right away,” and he moved to the door. “It's mighty kind of you to talk
+to me without throwing me out of the door,” he added. “I know how much
+nerve I have, picking Alice for a wife.”
+
+David was aware of a sudden flood of affection for the boy. He put his
+hand on Lanny's shoulder.
+
+“Welsh,” he said, “I can say what I must say without offending you, I
+see.”
+
+Lanny drew his breath sharply, and looked into David's eyes. The hand
+tightened a little on his shoulder. It stilled the fear that the dominie
+was about to tell him he could not have Alice, and his eyes smiled, for
+if Alice was not refused him outright no task would be too difficult to
+undertake, whatever it might be her father was about to propound.
+
+“We don't know you yet,” said David. “You understand that, of course--it
+is all so unexpected. I'll say frankly, my boy, that I like you; and
+that Alice likes you and has chosen you means much. You have not asked
+me for her out and out, but that is what you meant, of course. Will you
+let me reserve my word temporarily?”
+
+“Well, that's right,” said Lanny. “You ought to look me up and find out
+something about me before you give me anything as precious as Alice. If
+she was mine I wouldn't give her to anyone, no matter how good he was.
+I'll tell you, Mr. Dean, I don't pretend to be good enough for her; I
+don't expect you to find that I am; but I hope you don't find that I'm
+too bad for her.”
+
+“And might it not be as well,” said David, “that the engagement be not
+widely heralded at present!”
+
+Lanny's face fell.
+
+“I've told mother,” he said. “There is no telling who she has told by
+now.”
+
+“I cannot object to your having told your mother,” said David. “But let
+us tell no others for the present. Unless you wish to tell your father,”
+ he added. Then: “Good-by, Mr. Welsh. You understand you will be welcome
+here any time.”
+
+David hastened the departure because he saw Lucille Hardcome's low-hung
+carriage at his gate, and Lucille descending from it in state. Outside
+the door Lanny met Alice and to her query he said:
+
+“He was fine, Alice! He's a fine man. All he wants is time to look me up
+a little.”
+
+“The idea!” exclaimed Alice. “And when I have looked you up already,”
+ but it was said joyfully and she tempered it with a kiss, quite clearly
+seen by Lucille Hardcome through the colorless glass of the upper panel
+of the front door.
+
+
+
+
+XVII. LUCILLE TO THE RESCUE
+
+
+LUCILLE HARDCOME, having observed the kiss, instantly pulled the bell,
+and Lanny and Alice started apart guiltily, and Alice opened the door.
+Seeing Lucille was a relief, for the visitor might have been anyone, and
+Lucille further relieved her by pinching her cheek and shaking a playful
+finger at her, accompanied by a jingling of many bracelets.
+
+“So this is he!” she teased. “Am I to meet him, Alice, or are you too
+jealous to let him know other women!”
+
+Lanny stepped forward. He shook hands warmly, making Lucille's bracelets
+jingle like miniature cymbals, and Lucille exchanged a few words, half
+grave and half gay, taking his measure meanwhile--or thinking she was
+taking it, for she was a poor judge of individual character, however
+well she understood it in the gross. She liked the impressive. Henry
+Ward Beecher's hair meant more to her than Henry Ward Beecher's mind;
+she could never have understood a blithe statesman or one not in a
+frock coat. In time, not being an utter fool, she was apt to see through
+hollow impressiveness or to see real worth under unimpressive exteriors,
+but this came slowly. Her first impressions were usually wrong, as when
+she had misjudged Dominie Dean. In Lanny, standing in the illy lighted
+little hall, she saw nothing of the inner Lanny. She thought, “A
+male trifle; hardly worth serious consideration; a girl's first love
+material,” and felt she had him properly scheduled.
+
+“Your father is in the study?” she asked, and tapped on the study door
+lightly, not to injure the knuckles of her kid gloves. If David had not
+heard the light tap--which he did, knowing Lucille was in the hall--he
+would have heard her bracelets. He opened the door.
+
+We are apt to give men and women too much credit for pursuing a definite
+course. The hard heads that, at the beginning of a career, lay clean-cut
+plans of ambition are in an infinitesimal minority. With most ambition
+is not much more than a feeling of uneasiness, an oyster's mild
+irritation at the grain of sand that intrudes into the shell. Just as
+some forms of indigestion cause an inward uneasiness that urges the
+sufferer to eat and eat, regardless of what is eaten, and only seeking
+relief from what seems a pang of hunger--but is actually a pathologic
+condition--so the victim of ambition feeds on whatever comes to hand.
+Lucille was such a victim.
+
+When David opened the door of his study Lucille sailed in like a
+full-rigged ship, and seated herself at his desk. She opened her purse,
+and disgorged the roll of bank notes, which opened itself like something
+alive. She pushed the money to the edge of the desk.
+
+“You'll find that right,” she said, and dipped into her purse again.
+“This is the note, if you insist. I've left the time blank--shall I make
+it a year?”
+
+She picked up David's pen.
+
+“I think six months--”
+
+“It is to be just as you wish it,” she said, and inserted the time, and
+slid the note toward David, handing him the pen. He was standing, and he
+bent over the desk and signed his name. Lucille blotted it briskly, and
+put the note back in her purse. The money still remained where she had
+pushed it. She put it into David's hand.
+
+“There!” she exclaimed. “Now, no more worry!”
+
+“I can't tell you how I appreciate this, Mrs. Hardcome,” said David.
+
+“Please!” she begged, raising a hand. She snapped her purse and dropped
+it into her lap. “Alice told me of her engagement, the dear girl!” she
+said. “I met the happy man in the hallway just now.”
+
+“Alice told you?” said David, surprised. “Oh! this morning, of course.
+She said nothing just now? We think it best not to make the engagement
+public yet; they will not be married for a year, at least--they agree to
+that--and I thought she might have told you.”
+
+Lucille put out her hand; there was nothing for David to do but take it.
+
+“I'm so glad!” she cried effusively. “Glad the engagement is not to be
+announced, I mean; glad the wedding is not to be for a year. I wonder if
+you feel as I do, that so many marriages are too hastily made? Alice is
+such a dear girl, Mr. Dean; no man could be too good for her.”
+
+The implication was plain; Lanny was not good enough for Alice.
+
+“It isn't as if dear 'Thusia could be up and about,” said Lucille, still
+holding David's hand. “We know 'Thusia would do all a mother should do,
+but she is so handicapped. Young girls are so impulsive; they need just
+a bit of guiding here and a word there. We should let them think they
+are making a free choice, but should help them in making it. Mr. Dean,
+frankly, don't you think Alice is making a mistake!”
+
+She dropped the dominie's hand, and settled herself in his desk chair
+again. It was impossible to shake off the confidential air she had
+imparted to the interview. David was not sure that Alice was not making
+a mistake. He hesitated, seeking some word that would deny that 'Thusia
+had not done all she should have done for Alice. What he wanted to
+tell Lucille Hardcome was that he and 'Thusia were quite able to
+manage Alice's affairs, but it was necessary to tell Lucille more than
+politely, and he felt at heart that Lucille was perhaps right--someone
+should have guided Alice's choice a little.
+
+“I know you think so,” Lucille said without waiting for his reply. “I
+know just how you feel. I feel the same--quite as if Alice was my own
+daughter; we all feel as if Alice was that; the daughter of the church.
+Not but what this young man may be thoroughly praiseworthy, Mr. Dean,
+but is he the son-in-law our dominie should have! Oh, no! No!”
+
+In anything he said in Lanny's favor, David must be on the defensive.
+He did not know enough of the young man yet to speak with unbounded
+enthusiasm or calm certainty.
+
+“My short interview with him was quite satisfactory,” he said. “In the
+essentials he seems to meet any reasonable requirements. His manner is
+manly.”
+
+Lucille interrupted him.
+
+“Oh, all that, of course! Alice is not a baby, she would not choose
+anyone utterly impossible, I dare say.” Then, leaning toward David, she
+said: “Mr. Dean, you know and I know that Alice ought not marry this
+Lanny, or whatever his name is. This Welsh--do you know what his father
+is? He's an awful creature. You know Alice can't be permitted to marry
+into such a family. Now, please,” she urged, “just leave it all to me.
+Men can't manage such things, and poor dear 'Thusia--”
+
+“But, my dear Mrs. Hardcome,” David began. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Nonsense!”
+ she cried, rising and mocking him. “I think it is about time someone
+took you in hand, David Dean; I think it is just about time! 'Thusia is
+a dear soul, and Mary and Rose are dear souls too, but the whole lot
+of you haven't enough worldly gumption to say boo to a goose. You'd sit
+here and let Alice marry a bartender (well, then, an ex-bartender!) and
+you wouldn't see it would be the ruin of the whole lot of us, and of
+him, too, or if you did see it you wouldn't raise a hand.”
+
+She spoke rapidly but without excitement; teasingly.
+
+“Mr. Dean,” she continued in a more serious tone, “I am worldly and I
+know the world. Alice must not marry this young fellow; she must not!
+And she is not going to!”
+
+“But, Mrs. Hardcome,” cried David, thoroughly frightened. “I cannot let
+you interfere in what is so completely a family matter.”
+
+“David Dean, will you please stop Mrs. Hard-coming me? My name is
+Lucille quite as much as Mrs. Derling's is Mary, and you are not going
+to frighten me away by calling me Mrs. Hardcome. Now,” she said, “will
+you leave Alice to me?”
+
+“I will not!” said David; “I must beg you not to interfere in any way. I
+understand Alice; 'Thusia understands her. We are not, perhaps,” he said
+with a smile, “as lacking in worldly wisdom as you imagine.”
+
+Lucille shook her head and laughed. “Incorrigible!” she exclaimed.
+“You'll never understand how much you need someone like me. A business
+manager? Shall I call it that? Then it is all settled--I am to see that
+Alice does not make this mistake.”
+
+“No!” cried David, but she was at the door. “It is all settled!” she
+triumphed.
+
+“Mrs. Hardcome!”
+
+“All settled!” she laughed, and went out and closed the door.
+
+David put his hand on the knob and hesitated. After all was said,
+Lucille was right, no doubt. The marriage would be more than annoying;
+he himself was too prone to consider character as canceling worldly
+objections. There was one thing about Lucille Hardcome--she usually had
+her way. She was a “manager.”
+
+Lucille had gone from David to 'Thusia. David waited until she had left
+the house. He found 'Thusia more complacent than he had expected to find
+her. Lucille's visits sometimes annoyed her.
+
+“I feel so relieved, David,” she said. “Lucille has been here and spoken
+about Alice. There was so little I could do, tied down as I am, and Ruth
+could hardly help, and of course Mary would hesitate, feeling as she
+does about Alice and Ben. Lucille is just the person we needed.”
+
+“'Thusia! And I thought, of all the women in Riverbank, she was the one
+we would want to have keep hands off!”
+
+“But you see,” said 'Thusia cheerfully, “she is going to keep her hands
+off, in a way. She is going to be my hands.”
+
+David had his own idea of Lucille's being anyone's hands but her own,
+but he said nothing then. He had the money in his pocket with which to
+pay his debts, and he was eager to settle with Herwig. He kissed 'Thusia
+and went out.
+
+
+
+
+XVIII. MR. FRAGG WORRIES
+
+
+AS David entered Herwig's store P. K. Welsh was leaving it. He was the
+same greasy, unkempt figure as usual, his pockets stuffed full of copies
+of the _Declarator_ and exchanges, his bent shoulders carrying his head
+low, and his bushy brows drawn into a frown. He pushed by the dominie
+as if not seeing him. David turned, but the old man was already in
+the street, crossing it, and David went into the store. He had had a
+momentary impulse to stop P. K., and speak of the engagement, but he
+decided that telling his father was Lanny's affair. He went back to
+where Herwig sat at his desk.
+
+The grocer was working on his books, with a pile of bills and statements
+before him.
+
+“That man Welsh is a town nuisance,” he said. “Can't drive him away with
+a club; been pestering me an hour.”
+
+He did not say how he had finally driven Welsh away. P. K. had wanted a
+dollar's worth of sugar, and had set his mind on getting it from Herwig
+in exchange for advertising. Herwig had told him he couldn't afford
+to give a dollar's worth of sugar for advertising or anything else. He
+couldn't afford to give a cent's worth. He showed P. K. the bills he
+owed, and the bills owed to him. It happened that David's statement was
+the top of the pile.
+
+“He ought to pay you,” P. K. had snarled. “Man getting a salary like
+his; big church, rich congregation. What right has he to owe money!”
+
+“Well, he owes me,” said Herwig. “Everybody owes me. Credit is the curse
+of this town. I can't get money in, and I can't pay my bills, and if I
+don't I'm going to be shut up.”
+
+“One dollar's worth of sugar won't--”
+
+“Oh, go away! I tell you no, and I mean no! Get out!”
+
+P. K. had gone. Going he had seen the dominie plainly enough, and bitter
+hatred had been in his glance. Lanny had not told him of the engagement,
+but his wife had; and that alone was enough to anger the embittered, old
+man. On the street his anger grew. Why had the dominie not stopped him
+and said something about the engagement? Too stuck-up! Stuck-up, and
+with an unpaid grocer's bill! He went mumbling down the street, coaxing
+his ill humor.
+
+“I'm glad to say I've been able to raise some money,” David said, “and
+we will just settle that bill without further delay. And right glad I am
+to be able to do so, Mr. Herwig. The amount is?”
+
+“It will be a help, a great help,” said Herwig gratefully. “Thank you!
+When a man is pressed on all sides--”
+
+He was distraught with worry, it was easy to see.
+
+“That Welsh pesters the life out of me. I can't afford to advertise in
+his vile sheet; it's blackmail; money wasted--thrown away. He ought to
+be run out of town--tarred and feathered. Brought up a good-for-nothing,
+bartending son--”
+
+“Let me see--yes, this is the right change,” said David hastily. “You
+might send me--or I think I'll let Mrs. Dean give her order to the boy
+to-morrow, as usual.”
+
+He hurried from the store. He did not know why hearing Herwig talk
+about Lanny annoyed him so. When he was on the street he felt ashamed of
+having fled without saying a word in defense of Lanny. He turned to go
+back and did not go. Instead he went the rounds of his creditors, paying
+bills.
+
+It was after banking hours, but the door of the bank stood open and he
+went in. He found the banker in his office, for Burton never hurried
+home, and David went straight to the matter in hand. Lucille's loan had
+been enough to cover the advance made by the trustees, and David felt
+he should repay the church the advance. It had been included in the
+schedule of his debts Lucille had seen. He placed the bank notes on the
+banker's desk, and explained what they were for. B. G. took them and
+counted them.
+
+“You know there is no necessity for this, dominie,” he said. “It was
+understood the money should be deducted from your next salary payment.”
+
+“But, having it, I prefer to pay it now,” said David. “I was able to
+raise what I needed. A--friend came to my assistance.”
+
+Burton stacked the banknotes, and pushed them back on his desk. It was
+on the tip of his tongue to say he hoped David had said something to
+Lucille about an increased subscription, but he thought better of it.
+That Lucille had loaned David the money he was morally certain, for the
+bank notes were Riverbank National notes, crisply new and with Burton's
+signature hardly dry. He had handed them through the window to Lucille
+himself, remarking to her that she would like some brand-new money,
+perhaps. He remembered the amount of the check she had presented; no
+doubt it was the amount of the loan she had made David.
+
+When the dominie left Burton sat in thought. Lucille had not made David
+a present of the money, he decided, for he could not imagine David
+accepting any such gift, and it was fairly sure that David would not
+accept the money as a loan unless he felt sure of repaying it. That
+meant that he must be sure of an increase in salary, and that in
+turn meant that Lucille must have promised an increased subscription,
+doubtless asking that her intention be kept secret for the present. All
+this was not difficult to imagine, but B. C. was pleased that he was
+able to follow the clew so well. He decided that it would be safest to
+let David handle the matter, with an occasional hint to David to keep
+him working for the subscription. He derided this placidly and with the
+pleasant feeling that the dominie's refund, added to the cash already on
+hand, made the church's bank balance more respectable. He liked a good
+bank balance; the bank paid the church four per cent on its balances
+and he was always pleased when the item “bank interest” in his report
+amounted to a decent figure. He walked home feeling well satisfied. As
+he passed the old Fragg homestead he nodded to David's father-in-law who
+was coming through the gateway. The old man crossed the street.
+
+“My housekeeper is sick,” he said, as a man who feels the necessity of
+telling his banker why he is neglecting his business during business
+hours. “She's pretty bad this time, I'm afraid. I've got Rose Hinch, and
+the doctor has been here. No hope, I'm afraid.”
+
+“Mary Ann is an old woman,” said the banker philosophically.
+
+“Yes, yes!” agreed Fragg nervously. What he did not say was that if
+Mary Ann died he would have to find another housekeeper, and that--in
+Riverbank--would be a hard task. Mary Ann had been with him while his
+wife was alive, had been with him when 'Thusia was born. She knew his
+ways, and a new housekeeper would not. “Yes, we must all die!” he said.
+“I got your notice that my note comes due next week. I suppose it will
+be all right to renew it again?”
+
+“Quite. Not much coal business in midsummer, I imagine,” said the
+banker.
+
+“Very little. Well--”
+
+He looked at the house and then down the street, and hurried away. The
+banker continued his easy, homeward way.
+
+The note worried Fragg more than it worried the banker, because Fragg
+knew more about his affairs. He had mortgaged the homestead to go into
+the coal business, because the coal business eats up capital, but this
+did not worry either the banker or Fragg. What worried Fragg was his
+last winter's business. Ever since he had gone into the coal business
+the bank had loaned him, each year, more or less money to stock up his
+coal yard against the winter trade. Last winter he had lost money; bad
+accounts had eaten into his reserve, had devoured it and more; he had
+been obliged to use a good part of the money the bank loaned him in
+paying for coal already sold and consumed. He owed the bank; he owed the
+mines; he owed the holder of the mortgage. He wondered how he could
+get enough coal to supply his trade during the coming winter. When he
+reached his office on the levee, he saw the little card “Back in five
+minutes” stuck in the door, just as he had left it when called to Mary
+Ann's bedside. Roger was practicing ball; he waved his hand to his
+grandfather and went on playing, and the old man entered the office,
+to pore over his books again, seeking some way out of his difficulties.
+Through the window he glanced at Roger; he was very fond of the boy.
+
+
+
+
+XIX. “BRIEFS”
+
+
+WHEN the _Declarator_ for that week appeared, David found a copy in his
+box at the post office, for Welsh made it a practice to let his victims
+see how they were handled. He had given nearly all the space in
+the “Briefs” column to David. The dominie did not open the paper
+immediately. He had a couple of letters to read, and one or two
+denominational papers to glance through, and he was well up the hill
+before he tore the wrapper from the _Declarator_, and looked into it. As
+he read he stopped short, and stood until he had read every word in the
+column. Then he tore the sheet to bits, and threw it into the gutter.
+His first thought was that 'Thusia must not see the paper, or hear how
+Welsh had attacked him in it. The attack was less harmful than venomous.
+It was a tirade against “The Spiritual Dead Beat”--for so he chose
+to dub David--mentioning no name, but pointing clearly enough at the
+dominie. Choice bits:
+
+“Who is this hypocrite who preaches right living, and owes his butcher,
+his grocer, his baker, his shoe man, and can't or won't pay?”
+
+“I can't skin my grocer; he knows I'm a dead beat. I'm a fool; I ought
+to have set up as a parson.”
+
+There was an entire column of it. David's thought, after 'Thusia, was
+thankfulness that he owed not a tradesman in Riverbank.
+
+And this was to be Alice's father-in-law!
+
+Lanny came to the house that evening; he asked to see David in the
+study.
+
+“Of course you saw the _Declarator_, Mr. Dean,” he said when they were
+alone. “I don't know what to do about it. I saw father, and if he hadn't
+been my father I would have knocked him down with my fist. It's a dirty
+piece of business. I know what's the matter with him: he's sore because
+I'm going to marry somebody decent, when no decent person will have
+anything to do with him. Mother told him I'm engaged to Alice. I talked
+to him straight; you can believe that! I would have taken it out of
+his hide if I hadn't thought how it would look. You wouldn't want a
+son-in-law that was in jail for beating up his own father. What can I do
+about it, Mr. Dean?”
+
+David said nothing could be done about it; he said he was glad Lanny
+had not attacked his father with physical violence, and he urged him to
+avoid words with his father.
+
+“He has had a hard life; you and I do not know how hard. It has
+embittered him; he is not rightly responsible.”
+
+“But why should he attack you, of all men?” Lanny cried. “Or if he don't
+like you what kind of a father is it that tries to spoil things for
+me--that's what he's trying to do. It's meanness.”
+
+“He has had a hard life,” David repeated. “You don't think I ought to do
+anything? You can't suggest anything for me to do?”
+
+“Avoid quarreling with him,” said David. There was no other advice to
+give; it was unfortunate that Alice should have chosen to love a man
+with such a father; there was nothing Lanny or any other person could
+do. Welsh was a town nuisance.
+
+The next week the _Declarator_ retracted, in the manner in which it
+always retracted when a retraction was necessary. The item in the
+“Briefs” was headed “An Apology!!!” and ran: “We apologize. The
+Spiritual Dead Beat has paid his debts. We wonder who lent him the
+money?” The banker-trustee, Burton, meeting David, spoke to him of this.
+
+“I see our respected fellow townsman, Welsh, is touching you up,
+dominie,” he said. “It is a pity we can't run the fellow out of town.
+Worthless cur! He gave me his attention last year; I put an ad in his
+paper and he shut up. What do you suppose ever started him against you?”
+
+“He is an embittered man; his hand is against the whole world.”
+
+“That's probably so,” agreed the banker. “A sort of Donnybrook Fair; if
+you see a head, hit it. Well, I don't know what we can do about it. He
+keeps inside the law.” He hesitated. “Dominie,” he said, “you'll not
+feel offended if I say something? I guess you know I'm only thinking
+of the good of the church and of your own good. You don't suppose Welsh
+knows who lent you the money he's talking about, do you? I'll tell
+you--I imagine you make no secret of it--I know who lent it! I couldn't
+help knowing--”
+
+“It was entirely a business transaction; I stipulated that,” said David.
+
+“Certainly. We know that; anyone would know it that knew you, dominie.
+Well, I've no scruples about borrowing and lending; it is my business,
+I'm a banker. I'll make a guess that Lucille Hardcome came to you with
+the loan idea, and that you didn't go to her; and I'll make another
+guess that before you were willing to borrow the money from her you
+heard her say she was going to increase her subscription, maybe five
+hundred dollars, and maybe a thousand. Am I right? I thought so! Because
+it wouldn't be like you to borrow unless you saw where you could pay it
+back, and I told you that if Lucille raised her subscription you'd get
+your share. It's all right! The only thing--you won't mind if I say it?”
+
+“I can imagine what it is,” said David.
+
+“Yes. If this man Welsh knows what he is talking about--if he isn't
+just guessing--he can be very nasty about it. I can't imagine why he is
+picking on you, but if he wants to keep it up, and knows you borrowed
+money from Lucille Hardcome, he can make it--well, he'll make it sound
+as if there was something wrong about it. He'll twist some false meaning
+into it--invalid wife and gay widow and money passing. I hate to say
+this, but people are always looking for a chance to jump on a
+minister--some people are, that is. I don't know how we can get at
+Welsh--he's so low he's threat-proof. I was going to suggest that you
+let me put in an application for a loan at our bank, say for the amount
+you borrowed from Lucille Hardcome. Borrow the money from us and pay
+her, and then let us get after Welsh.”
+
+David thought a moment.
+
+“It might offend her,” he said. “She was extremely insistent. I might
+almost say she predicated her possible increase of subscription on my
+accepting the loan. I felt so or I would have refused her.”
+
+“Let me handle her,” urged Burton. “I'll say nothing until the bank
+agrees to the loan, anyway. You'll let me make the application for you!”
+
+David agreed. It was, if the bank was willing, the wisest course, or so
+it seemed at the moment.
+
+David went about his duties as usual, and it was not for several days
+that he heard from Burton. The bank's discount committee had declined
+the loan.
+
+Lucille, in the meantime, had not been idle. She set herself the task
+of saving Alice from Lanny Welsh, and she went about it in a manner that
+would have done credit to an experienced diplomat. One of the men she
+had tried hardest to induce to become a frequenter of the “salon” she
+had attempted to create was Van Dusen, the owner of the _Eagle_, and in
+a certain satirically smiling way he admired Lucille. He had once had
+literary ambitions and, like most small town editors, he had his share
+of political hopefulness, especially with reference to a post office;
+and he recognized in Lucille a power such as Riverbank had not
+previously possessed. She knew congressmen and senators, and dined them
+when they came to town; and they seemed to think her worth knowing.
+A word from her might, at the right moment, throw an office from one
+applicant to another. Van Dusen cultivated her friendship. He was a good
+talker and a great reader, and Lucille enjoyed him. He was a busy and
+a sadly overworked man, hard to draw from his home after his day's work
+was done, but he did accept Lucille's invitations. His presence at her
+house meant much; the town considered him one of its illustrious men.
+
+Lucille jingled into his office one morning, rustled into a chair and
+leaned her arms on his desk.
+
+“Are you going to do something for me, like a good man?” she began.
+
+Van Dusen leaned back in his chair and smiled.
+
+“To the half of my kingdom,” he said.
+
+“That's less than I expected, but I suppose I'll have to make it do,”
+ she returned playfully. “Isn't there, Mr. Van Dusen, some newspaper or
+printing office in Derlingport that pays more than you pay! Some place
+where a deserving young man could better himself?”
+
+“Some of them pay more than the _Eagle,_” he admitted.
+
+“And you could get a young man a place there?”
+
+“I might. The _Gazette_ might do it for me; Bender is an old friend of
+mine.”
+
+“Then I want you to do it,” said Lucille. “You won't ask why, will you?
+Just do it for me?”
+
+“What position does your protégé want?” Van Dusen asked, drawing a
+scratch pad toward him, and poising a pencil.
+
+“Compositor--isn't that it--when a man sets type? It's Lanny Welsh; I
+want him to have a better job than he has--in Derlingport.” She saw Van
+Dusen frown. “I think I'll tell you all about it,” she said; “I know I
+can trust you.”
+
+“With your innermost secrets, on my honor as a bearded old editor,”
+ smiled Van Dusen.
+
+“Then it is this,” said Lucille and she told about Lanny and Alice.
+
+Van Dusen demurred a little. He said Lanny was good enough for any girl,
+dominie's daughter or king's daughter, no matter whose daughter.
+
+“And have you seen the _Declarator?_” Lucille demanded. “Is the
+editor of the _Declarator_ good enough to be a dominie's daughter's
+father-in-law?”
+
+Van Dusen admitted that this was another matter, and good-naturedly let
+Lucille have her way. When she had departed, he wrote to Bender of the
+_Gazette_. A few days later Lanny came to the manse, half elated and
+half displeased.
+
+“Old Van is all right!” he told David. “I can't blame him for bouncing
+me when there's no work for me to do, and there's not one man in a
+thousand that would take the trouble to look up another job for me,
+and hand it to me with my blue envelope. I'm going up to work on the
+_Gazette_, at Derlingport, Mr. Dean. It just rips me all up to go that
+far from Alice, even for a little while, but I've got to do it. If we're
+going to be married in a year I need every day's work I can put in, and
+when you think that the _Gazette_ job will pay more than my _Eagle_ job,
+I guess you'll admit I've simply got to grab it.”
+
+“When are you going?” asked David. “To-morrow,” said Lanny. “These jobs
+don't wait; you've got to take them while they're empty. Between you and
+me, Mr. Dean, I think I wouldn't have had a chance in the world if it
+hadn't been for Mr. Van Dusen. He's that sort, though.”
+
+To David, knowing nothing of Lucille's having a hand in this, it seemed
+almost providential, this removal of Lanny to another town.
+
+“I've got another idea, too,” Lanny said. “I think maybe I can get
+father to come to Derlingport. He's dead sore on Riverbank, I know, and
+mother will be anxious to be where I am. I may be able to make father
+think there is a better field for the _Declarator_ there than here. I
+don't know. After I've been there awhile I'll try it. I wish he would
+leave this town, and let people forget about him.”
+
+David heartily wished the same thing, and he was soon to wish it still
+more heartily. At the moment he liked Lanny better than he had ever
+liked the boy.
+
+“I expect you'll excuse me, now,” Lanny said. “I expect you know I'm
+wanting to spend all the time with Alice I can, going in the morning and
+all that. And, oh, yes! I'm going to look around up there for a job for
+Old Pop--for Roger. I'm pretty sure to get on the Derlingport nine, and
+I want Old Pop to be behind the bat when I'm pitching. I think it would
+be a good thing for him to get up there, if I can land a job for him.
+There's no future in that coal office, Mr. Dean, to my mind. They are a
+live lot of men back of the Derlingport nine, and if I want Old Pop to
+catch for me, and won't listen to anything else, some of them will
+hustle up a job for him. Maybe there is a coal man connected with the
+nine someway. I don't know, but in a big place like Derlingport there's
+always room for anybody as clean and straight as Roger.”
+
+David was touched. He saw, in imagination, a new Roger winning his
+own way, spurred on by the brisker business life of the bigger town,
+bettered by the temporary breaking of home ties, inoculated with Lanny's
+enthusiasm.
+
+Roger spoke of the chance Lanny might get him, and spoke of it
+voluntarily and enthusiastically. It would be a great thing for him, he
+said. Grandfather Fragg was all right, of course, but there was nothing
+in the way of a future in his coal business. He said he hated to take
+money from him when he knew the business was running behind every day.
+
+“Is it as bad as that, Roger!” David asked. “Every bit, father,” Roger
+replied. “I don't see how he's going to pull through the winter and keep
+the business going.”
+
+“Isn't there anything you can do!”
+
+“Do! It isn't a case of do, it's a case of money. He didn't have enough
+capital to start with, and he hasn't any left. Brown & Son have got
+all the business. I could get some of it away from them but grandfather
+can't supply the coal. He can't buy it; he hasn't the money to do a
+big business on, and a small coal business is a losing proposition. The
+profit is too small; you've got to do big business or you might as well
+quit.”
+
+The talk left David with a new source of worry. 'Thusia's father was
+showing his infirmities more plainly each day; if he lost his coal
+business--and David knew the loss of the Fragg home was to be included
+in that loss--the old man would have but one place to turn to: David's
+home. It would mean another mouth to feed, perhaps another invalid to
+care for and support.
+
+
+
+
+XX. LANNY IS AWAY
+
+
+TWO weeks in succession, after going to Derlingport, Lanny spent Sunday
+in River-bank, and Alice enjoyed the visits immensely. Their brief
+separation gave zest to the mere being together again. The third Sunday
+Lanny did not come down, but wrote a long letter. The Derlingport nine
+had jumped at the chance of securing him as a pitcher; they were to give
+him ten dollars a game. He was mighty sorry, he wrote, that the nine's
+schedule included Sunday games, but every ten dollars he could pick up
+in that way made their wedding day come just so much nearer. He guessed,
+he said, that it would be all right for him to play the Sunday games in
+Derlingport, and in other towns than Riverbank; if Derlingport played
+any Sunday games in Riverbank they could get another pitcher for the
+games. He mentioned Roger; he had talked to the bosses of the nine, and
+they were willing to find a job for Old Pop, and would do so if Roger
+would sign up for the season, or what remained of it, but Lanny wrote
+that he supposed the Sunday game business would shut Roger out of that.
+
+Alice volunteered to let David and 'Thusia read the letter--it was the
+first out-and-out love letter she had ever received--but they declined,
+feeling that to do so would be to take an unfair advantage of
+Alice's dutifulness, and she read them such portions as were not
+pure love-making. The letter came Saturday. Alice was not greatly
+disappointed that Lanny was not coming down, for he had suggested that
+he might not come. She went to church Sunday morning, and Ben Derling
+walked home with her. The Presbyterian Sabbath school was held in the
+afternoon, and about the time Lanny was warming up for the first inning
+of the Derlingport-Marburg ball game Alice was leading her class in
+singing the closing song. Below the pulpit Lucille Hardcome beat time
+with her jingling bracelets, and she smiled to see Ben Derling close
+his hymn book, and edge past his class of boys with a glance in Alice's
+direction. He hurried out as soon as the benediction was said, and
+Lucille rightly guessed that he meant to wait for Alice in the lobby,
+but Lucille captured Alice before she could escape.
+
+“If you are not needed at home, Alice,” she said, “you must come with
+me. I have the most interesting photographs! Dozens of them, pictures of
+Europe. My carriage will be here directly.”
+
+The photographs were not new. Lucille had made a flight through Europe
+as soon as her husband was dead. It was her first use of the money she
+inherited, and she had bought the photographs then--it was before the
+days of picture postcards.
+
+For six months after her return she had inflicted the photographs on
+all her friends and acquaintances, and had then tired of them. They had
+reposed peacefully in a box ever since, and might have remained there
+forever, had she not invited Ben Derling to her house.
+
+Lucille played a harp--a great gilded affair, and she asked Ben, who was
+a fair violinist, to try a duet, suggesting that they might make part
+of a program when she gave a concert for the church fund. Ben went
+willingly enough, and played as well as he could, and enjoyed the
+evening immensely. He found Lucille but an indifferent harpist, but
+willing to let him make suggestions. She asked him what he thought of
+a series of musical evenings, and he took to the idea enthusiastically.
+This was Wednesday.
+
+Lucille's real reason for asking Ben to her house had been to study him
+a little more closely than she had had opportunity to do before. She
+mentioned Alice, and Ben was enthusiastic enough to satisfy Lucille that
+he liked Alice well. If Alice would be willing to try out a few things
+with him, piano-violin duets, it would be a pleasing part of the musical
+evenings, he said. Lucille thought so, too. They talked music; and
+Lucille happened to mention that she had first heard the harp in Paris,
+and Ben said he had not taken time to hear any music when he was in
+Europe. It was the first Lucille had heard of Ben's European tour, and
+she left him in her parlor while she hunted up the photographs.
+
+She was not quite sure where they were. As she rummaged for them she
+thought Ben over, and almost decided he would not do as a substitute for
+Lanny Wesh. There was something gayly sparkling about Lanny, and Ben was
+anything but gay or sparkling. He was short and chunky, serious-minded
+and sedate. Some ancestor had given him a little greasy knob of a nose,
+but this was his most unpleasant feature. It is easiest, perhaps, to
+describe him as a thoroughly bathed young man, smelling of perfumed
+soap, and with yellowish hair, ever smooth and glistening from recent
+applications of a well-soaked hair-brush. He had no bad habits unless,
+in one so young, incessant application to business is a bad habit. He
+had taken his place in his grandfather's office the week the old man
+died. Already, from bending over a desk, he was a little rounded in
+the shoulders. His violin and his Sunday school class were his only
+relaxations. He was a good boy, and a good son; but Lucille was afraid
+he was not likely to appeal to the romantic taste of a girl like Alice.
+When she discovered the photographs she was inclined to leave them where
+they were, and tell Ben she could not find them, and let the musical
+evenings be forgotten. The picture that happened to be on top was one
+that pictured some city or cathedral of which Van Dusen had spoken when
+last in her home, and more for Van Dusen than for Ben she gathered
+the pictures in her arms, and carried them downstairs. Ben seized them
+eagerly.
+
+His trip abroad had been the one great upflaring of his life. He had
+gone with a “party,” and had raced from place to place, but he had
+a memory that was infallible. His eyes brightened as he saw the
+photographs. He talked. He talked well. He made the pictures live.
+He was in his element: he would have made an admirable stereopticon
+lecturer had business not claimed him. He remembered dates, historical
+associations, little incidents that had occurred and that had the
+foreign tang. Before he had gone one quarter through the pile of
+pictures, Lucille gathered them up.
+
+“No more to-night!” she laughed. “We young folks must have our beauty
+sleep,” and she sent him away. “He must show the pictures to Alice,” she
+said to herself. “She will be made to visit Europe when she hears him
+tell of it. He is quite another Ben.”
+
+When, Sunday afternoon, Lucille found that Ben, as she had guessed, was
+waiting in the lobby she hailed him at once, saying:
+
+“How fortunate! I am taking Alice to look at my European pictures. You
+'ll come, won't you?” Ben was eager. There was room in the carriage for
+him, crowding a little, which was not unpleasant when it was Alice who
+was crowded against him. Lucille left them with the photographs while
+she went to induce the maid to make a pitcher of lemonade. When she
+returned Ben was talking. He and Alice were seated on a couch by the
+window, and Alice was holding a photograph in her hands, studying it.
+Ben sat turned toward her; he leaned to point out some feature of the
+picture, and Alice asked a question. Lucille placed the pitcher of
+lemonade on a stand, and went out; they were doing very well without
+her. She felt she had made an excellent beginning; Lanny banished,
+and Alice at least interested in what Ben was interested in. When she
+interrupted them it was to suggest the musical evenings.
+
+“It will be delightful!” Alice exclaimed. She had, for the moment, quite
+forgotten Lanny. The moment had, in fact, stretched to something like
+two hours. Ben walked home with her.
+
+
+
+
+XXI. A FAILURE
+
+
+GUST and September passed, and, in passing, seemed as placid and
+uneventful as any two months that ever slipped quietly away. To Alice no
+day and no week held any especial significance; if she had been asked to
+tell the most important event of the two months, she would probably
+have said that it was the completion of the set of twelve embroidered
+doilies, and the centerpiece to match, the first work she had undertaken
+for her new home--the home to be--since her engagement to Lanny had
+come about. David Dean could have thought of nothing of particular
+importance. Old Mrs. Grelling had died, but she had been at death's door
+so long her final passing through was hardly an event, and nothing else
+had occurred. Lanny would have said everything was running smoothly;
+his pitching arm kept in good condition, his work was steady at the
+_Gazette_ office, and Alice's letters to some extent took the place of
+the visits to Riverbank which the Sunday ball games made impossible. Old
+P. K. Welsh seemed to have forgotten his anger against the dominie, and
+used the “Briefs” to lambaste other Riverbankers. Herwig was still in
+business and Mary Ann, Mr. Fragg's housekeeper, clung to life. Rose
+Hinch was still nursing the old housekeeper and getting Fragg's meals.
+'Thusia was no better and no worse. The two months were uneventful. They
+were months of which we are accustomed to say: “Everything is going the
+same as usual.”
+
+We deceive ourselves. The quiet days build the great catastrophies. The
+greatest builder and demolisher is Time, and he works toward his ends
+on quiet days as well as on noisy days; works more rapidly and more
+insidiously, perhaps. If Time does nothing else to us on quiet days, he
+makes us a day older each day. To-day I am the indestructible granite;
+to-morrow a speck of dust touches me and is too small to see; the next
+day it is a smudge of green; the next it is a lichen; it is a patch of
+moss that can be brushed away with the hand; it is a cushion of wood
+violets and oxalis; it is a mat in which a seedling tree takes root; the
+roots pry and the moisture rots and the granite rock falls apart, and I
+am dead.
+
+The two months that passed so quietly and happily for Alice Dean were
+equally happy months for Ben Derling. He was never the youth to make
+of courtship a hurrah and a race; he hardly considered he was courting
+Alice--he was seeing her oftener than he had seen her, and enjoying it.
+Alice was but filling in the days and evenings as pleasantly as possible
+during Lanny's absence. If Ben had been the eager instigator of their
+meetings Alice would have drawn back, but Ben instigated nothing;
+Lucille Hardcome stood between them, and was the reason they met. Alice
+went to Lucille's because Lucille wished her musical evenings to be a
+success; Ben was there because he was a part of the proposed programs.
+The two young people were musicians, not susceptible male and female,
+and they met as musicians, interested in a common desire to assist
+Lucille. By the end of the two months Alice had greater respect and
+liking for Ben than she had ever imagined possible. She had thought him
+a dull boy; she found him solid, sincere and more than comfortable. By
+the end of the two months Ben, not aware that Alice was pledged, had
+decided that she was the girl he wished--but no hurry!--to have as a
+wife. Lucille was pleased but impatient. Mary Derling, seeing how things
+were going, was pleased but not impatient.
+
+Alice was unaware of any change in her feeling for Lanny. She wrote him
+letters that were as loving as love letters should be, and Lanny wrote
+with equal regularity. He wrote daily. Toward the end of September Alice
+was not quite as eager in her reading of his letters, mainly because
+their mere arrival was satisfactory evidence that Lanny still loved her.
+She wrote a little less frequently; there was not enough news to make
+letters necessary, except as expressions of affection. Without knowing
+it, she was reluctant to express her affection as unrestrainedly as at
+first. She let one of Lanny's letters remain unopened a full day.
+Once she passed old P. K. Welsh on the street: he did not notice her,
+probably did not know she was Alice Dean, but Alice felt an irritation;
+it was too bad Lanny had such a father. Without anything having
+happened, the end of the two months found this difference in Alice:
+whereas, at the beginning of August she was in love with Lanny, and
+eager for the wedding, at the end of September she was in love with him,
+and not eager for the wedding. Probably if Lanny had made a few trips to
+Riverbank just then it would have made all the difference possible. He
+was magnetic; he was not a magnetic correspondent.
+
+The unimportant two months had for David Dean several vastly important
+littlenesses. Lucille, preliminary to her “evenings,” asked David to run
+in and hear how well her amateurs were progressing, and she asked
+Mary Derling, too. She had in mind a trial of the effect of a family
+grouping, as if the presence of Mary and David would be an unwitting
+approval of growing intimacy of Ben and Alice. David, always music
+hungry, enjoyed the evenings of practice; Mary did not care much for
+music, and cared a little less for Lucille. She made excuses. After one
+evening she declined and went to the manse instead; she enjoyed being
+with 'Thusia. At the far end of Lucille's rather spacious parlor David
+and Lucille sat, while Ben and Alice tried their music. Lucille talked
+of everything that might interest David. She adopted the fiction
+that she and the dominie were in close confidence, and attuned her
+conversation to the fiction. She was continually saying, “But you and
+I know--” and, “You and I, however--” David as consistently declined to
+share the appearance of close confidence, but how could he be too harsh
+when the twin thoughts of what Lucille was doing for Alice and what he
+owed Lucille in cash (and hoped to get from her in subscription) were
+always present! The two eventless months also brought the note sixty
+days nearer due. They did not bring the subscription Lucille had hinted.
+Now and then a flush of worry ran through David--how would he be able to
+reduce the amount of the note when the six months were up? Certainly
+not out of any savings; his expenses seemed to be running a little in
+advance of his salary, as usual.
+
+For 'Thusia's father the two months brought closer and clearer the
+certainty that he could not keep the coal business intact much longer.
+After the January settlements, or after the April settlements, at
+latest, the bank would see that his affairs were hopeless. Concerning
+his business, all he hoped now was that he could keep things going until
+Mary Ann died. He had an idea, hazy and which he dared not think into
+concreteness, that--once out of business--he might make a living doing
+something. At the same time he knew he could do nothing of the sort; he
+had not the health. He was merely trying to avoid admitting to himself
+that he was about to become a charge on David Dean.
+
+The crash--and it was a very gentle crash, and well deadened by the bank
+which did not want unprofitable reverberations--came in April. As the
+fact reached the newspapers and the public, it appeared that Mr. Fragg
+was selling out on account of his failing health, and that before
+embarking in another business he would rest and recuperate. His books
+showed that when everything was turned into cash he would still be
+indebted to the bank, and the coal mines or factors, something over four
+thousand dollars. The house was gone, of course. Mary Ann had died in
+December, and Mr. Fragg had not tried to replace her; for several months
+he had been boarding. It was evident to him and to David that the old
+man could not board much longer; there was no money to pay the board
+bills. There was one room vacant at the manse, the room that had been
+“fixed up” for a maid, under the roof, used now as a storage place since
+Alice did the work of the dismissed maid. Here old Mr. Fragg took the
+few belongings the room would accommodate.
+
+For many years after this the old man was often seen in Riverbank. Bad
+days he was unable to go out; on bright days he walked slowly downtown.
+He had his friends, merchants who were glad, or at least willing, to
+have him sit in their offices, and with them he spent the days. Now and
+then 'Thusia gave him a little money--a dollar or two, all that could be
+afforded--and so his life ran to a close. He would have been quite happy
+if he could have paid his own way. Love and kindness enveloped him in
+David's home; he was the dearly loved grandfather. He would have been
+quite happy, without paying his way, if he had not known how hard it was
+for even David to live on his salary. He worried about that constantly.
+
+
+
+
+XXII. A TRAGEDY
+
+
+I KNEW David Dean so well and for so many years that I may see a tragedy
+in what may, after all, be merely an ordinary human life. As I think
+of him, from the time I first knew him, on through our many years of
+friendship, I cannot recall that he ever had a greater ambition than
+to serve his church and his town faithfully. He had a man's desire for
+happiness, and for the blessings of wife and children, and that they
+might live without penury; but he was always too full of the wish to be
+of service to waste thought on himself. Love and care and such little
+luxuries as the shut-in invalid must have he lavished on 'Thusia,
+but the lavishment of the luxuries was in the spirit, and not in the
+quantity. It was lavishness to spend even a few cents for daintier fruit
+than usual, when David's income and expenses were considered. 'Thusia
+did not suffer for luxuries, to tell the truth; for Mary and the church
+ladies sometimes almost overwhelmed her with them, but the occasional
+special attention from David was, as all wives will appreciate, most
+necessary.
+
+The Riverbank Presbyterians considered themselves exceedingly fortunate
+in having David Dean. The rapid succession of Methodist pastors,
+with the inevitable ups and downs of character and ability, and the
+explosions of enthusiasm or of anger at each change, made David's long
+tenure seem a double blessing. His sermons satisfied; his good works
+were recognized by the entire community; his faith was firm and warming.
+He was well loved. When Lucille Hardcome finally recognized his worth,
+there did not remain a member of the congregation who wished a change.
+It may be put more positively: the entire congregation would have
+dreaded a change had the thought of one been possible.
+
+A few of the members, Burton among them, may have recognized that
+David--to put it brutally--was a bargain. He could not be replaced for
+the money he cost. The other members were content in the thought that
+their dominie was paid a little more than any minister in Riverbank,
+nor was it their affair that the other ministers were grossly underpaid.
+Certainly there was always competition enough for the Methodist
+pastorate and hundreds of young men would have been glad to succeed
+David.
+
+When the six months--the term of the note David had given Lucille
+Hardcome--elapsed he was unable to make any reduction in its amount.
+Casting up his accounts he found he was not quite able to meet his
+bills; a new load of debt was accumulating. He went to her with the
+interest money, feeling all the distress of a debtor, and she laughed
+at him. From somewhere in her gilded escritoire she hunted out the note,
+took the new one he proffered, and made the whole affair seem trivial.
+He mentioned the subscription she had half, or wholly, promised and she
+reassured him. Some houses she owned somewhere were not rented at the
+moment; she did not like to promise what she could not perform or
+could only perform with difficulty. It would be all right; Mr. Burton
+understood; she had explained it to him. She made it seem a matter of
+business, with the unrented houses and her talk of taxes, and David was
+no business man; it was not for him to press matters too strongly
+if Lucille and Burton had come to an understanding. She turned the
+conversation to Alice and Ben.
+
+“Lanny Welsh hasn't been down at all, has he?” she asked.
+
+“Yes, once or twice,” David said.
+
+“Alice says he is buying a shop in Derlingport.”
+
+“Has bought it. It is one reason he cannot come down.”
+
+Lucille looked full into David's eyes.
+
+“Tell me!” she smiled. “Don't I deserve to know the whole? Has she said
+anything!”
+
+“Yes,” said David, “she has said something. She doesn't know what to do.
+She came to me for advice; I told her to trust her own heart.” Lucille
+laughed gleefully.
+
+“These girls!” she exclaimed. “Well, you told her exactly the right
+thing! Mr. Dean, she is in love with Ben! She is in love with both of
+them, of course, or she is in love with Love, as a young girl should
+be, and she doesn't know behind which mask, Ben's or Lanny's, Love is
+hiding. She will never marry Lanny!”
+
+“You are so sure?”
+
+“You wouldn't know the Ben I have made,” said Lucille. “Ben does not
+know. Six months ago he had no more of the lover in him than a machine
+has; if any youth was left, it was drying up while he clawed over his
+business affairs. I think,” she laughed, “if I ever needed a profession
+I would take up lover-making. What do you think Ben has done?”
+
+David did not hazard a guess.
+
+“Bought a shotgun,” Lucille laughed. “Ben Derling going in for sport!
+I'd have him learning to dance, if dancing was proper. I believe I am
+really clever, Mr. Dean! I saw just what Ben lacked, and I had George
+Tunnison come here--he plays a flute as horribly as anyone can--and I
+made him talk ducks and quail, until Ben's muscles twitched. If Alice
+had been a man she would be a duck hunter.”
+
+David smiled now.
+
+“She would,” he admitted.
+
+“So Ben is spending half his spare time banging at a paper target with
+George, and he brings the targets to show to Alice. He has bought a
+shanty boat with George. It's romance! Danger! Manliness!”
+
+She laughed again. David smiled, looking full at her with his gray eyes,
+amusement sparkling in them. He had a little forelock curl that always
+lay on his forehead. Lucille thought what a boy he was, and then--what a
+lover he would be; quite another sort from Ben Derling. She drew a deep
+breath, frightened by the daring thought that flashed across her mind.
+
+At no time, I am sure, was Lucille Hardcome in love with David. The
+pursuit she began--or it would be better to call it a lively siege--was
+no more than a wanton trial of her powers. She was a born schemer, an
+insatiable intrigante, lacking, in Riverbank--since she was now social
+queen and church dictator--opportunity for the exercise of her ability.
+It is doubtful whether she ever knew what she wanted with David Dean.
+There are cooks and chambermaids who glory in their “mashes,” and tell
+them over with gusto; they collect “mashes” as numismatists collect
+coins, and display the finer specimens with great pride. It may be that
+Lucille thought it would be a fine thing to make the finest man she knew
+fall in love with her. The proof of her power would be all the greater
+because he was a minister and married, and seemingly proof against her
+and all other women.
+
+'Thusia was an invalid, and it may have flashed across Lucille's brain
+that 'Thusia might not live forever; it is more likely that she did not
+think of a time when David might be free to marry again. She doubtless
+thought it would be interesting, and in harmony with her character as
+social queen, to make a conquest of David, and have him dangling. There
+is no way of telling what she thought or what she wanted beyond what we
+know: she came to courting him so openly that it made talk. Lucille had
+sufficient conceit to think that no man could withstand her if she gave
+her heart to a conquest. She did not hurry matters. She had all the rest
+of her life, and all the rest of David's, in which to play the game.
+For a year or two she was satisfied to think that David admired her
+secretly; that he was struggling with himself, and trying to conceal
+what he felt, as a man in his position should. Instead, he was unaware
+that Lucille was trying to do anything unusual. She had her ways and her
+manners; she was flamboyant and fleshily impressive. That she should coo
+like a dove-like cow might well be but another of her manifestations.
+David really had no idea what she was getting at, or that she was
+getting at anything except--by seeming to be on close terms with the
+dominie--strengthening her dominance in the church. She had enveloped
+the elders and the trustees, and now she seemed to wish to envelop the
+dominie, after which she would grin like the cat that swallowed the
+canary. David, having a backbone, stiffened it, and it was then Lucille
+discovered she had teased herself into a state where a conquest of David
+seemed a necessity to her life's happiness.
+
+Long before she reached this point, she had the satisfaction of knowing
+that Alice had broken with Lanny, and was engaged to Ben Derling. The
+break with Lanny came less than a year after Lanny went to Derlingport,
+and was not sharp and angry but slow and gentle--like the separation of
+a piece of water-soaked cardboard into parts. Distance and time worked
+for Lucille; propinquity worked for Ben Derling. Thirty miles and eleven
+months were too great for Lanny's personal charm to extend without
+losing vigor, and Lucille groomed Ben, mentally and otherwise, and
+brought out his best. There was no doubt that Ben would make the best
+husband for Alice; he was a born husband. No matter what man any girl
+picked it was safe to say Ben would make a better husband than the man
+chosen; it would only remain for the girl to be able to get Ben, and to
+feel that--the world being what it is, and perfection often the dullest
+thing in it--she wanted a best husband. Alice, aided by Lucille, decided
+that she did want Ben.
+
+It would be untruthful to deny that David and 'Thusia were pleased. They
+liked Ben and loved his mother; Lanny's unfortunate father no longer
+lurked a family menace. With these and other considerations came,
+unasked but warming, the thought that the future would not hold poverty
+for all concerned. It was well that Alice need not add her poverty
+to David's and 'Thusia's, for Roger--well beloved as he was--seemed
+destined to be helpless in money affairs. The George Tunnison who had
+been used to tempt Ben Derling to so much sportiness as lay in
+duck hunting kept a small gun and sporting goods shop--a novelty in
+Riverbank--and Roger had found a berth there. His ball playing made him
+a local hero, and he did draw trade, and George gave him five dollars a
+week. This was to be more when the business could afford it, which would
+be never.
+
+No time had been set for Alice's wedding. Ben was never in a hurry, and
+there seemed no reason why the wedding should be hastened. If Ben was
+slow in other things he was equally slow in changing his mind and,
+having once asked Alice to marry him, he would marry her, even if she
+made him wait ten years. Except for their worry over money matters--for
+Lucille meant to withhold her increased subscription as long as
+the withholding made the trustees, and especially Burton, fawn a
+little--David and 'Thusia were quite happy. The engagement had brought
+Mary Derling closer than ever, and Rose Hinch was always dearer when
+young love was in the air. She had missed love in her youth, since David
+was not for her, but her joy in the young love of others was as great as
+if it had been her own.
+
+The day was early in the spring, and the hour was late in the afternoon.
+David, just in from some call, had thrown his coat on the hall rack,
+and entered the study. He was tired, and dropped into his big easy-chair
+half inclined to steal a wink or two before supper. In the sitting room
+'Thusia and Mary Derling, Alice and Rose Hinch, were sewing and talking.
+
+“I'll tell you one thing,” he heard Alice say; “I'm not going to spoil
+my beautiful blue eyes sewing in this light.”
+
+He heard a match scrape, and a strip of yellow light appeared on his
+worn carpet. Against it Alice's profile, oddly distorted, showed in
+silhouette. Mary's voice, asking if Alice saw her scissors, and Alice's
+reply, came faintly. He closed his eyes.
+
+The jangling of the doorbell awakened him. “Never mind, I'll use
+Rose's,” he heard Mary say, so brief had been his drowsing, and Alice
+went to the door.
+
+“Yes, Mrs. Derling is here,” he heard Alice say in reply to a question
+he could not catch. “Will you come in!”
+
+Evidently not. Alice went into the sitting room. “Someone to see you,
+Aunt Mary,” she said, for so she called Mary. “He won't come in.”, Mary
+went to the door. David heard her querying “Yes!” and the mumbling voice
+of the man at the door and Mary's rapid questions and the answers she
+received. He reached the door in time to put an arm around her as she
+crumpled down. She had grown stout in the latter years and her weight
+was too much for him. He lowered her to the lowest hall step and called:
+“Rose!” Rose Hinch came, trailing a length of some white material. She
+cast it aside, and dropped to her knees beside Mary.
+
+“What is it!” she asked, looking up at David. “I think she fainted,” he
+said. “Ben is dead--is drowned.”
+
+“Ah!” cried Rose in horror and sympathy and put her hand on Mary's
+heart.
+
+“And Roger,” said David. “Roger, too!”
+
+
+
+
+XXIII. SCANDAL
+
+
+THE bodies were recovered, had been recovered before George Tunnison
+started on the long trip back to Riverbank. It seemed that Ben could
+not swim, and when the skiff turned over he grasped Roger, and they both
+went down. The river was covered with floating ice. Tunnison, according
+to his own account, did what he could, but if the two came up it must
+have been to find the floating ice between them and the air. They were
+beyond resuscitation when they were found. Of Mary the doctor's verdict
+was fatty degeneration of the heart; any shock would have killed her.
+
+In the sad days and weeks that followed Rose Hinch was the comforter,
+offering no words but making her presence a balm. She neither asked nor
+suggested that she come, but came and made her home in the manse. It
+is difficult to express how she helped David and 'Thusia and doubly
+bereaved Alice and querulous old Mr. Fragg over the hard weeks. She was
+Life Proceeding As It Must. It might almost be said that she was the
+normal life of the family, continuing from where sorrow had wrenched
+David and 'Thusia and Alice and the grandfather from it, and, by mute
+example, urging them to live again. Her presence was comfort. Her manner
+was a sweet suggestion that life must still be lived. She made the
+grandfather's bed in Roger's room, for a room vacated by death is an
+invitation to sorrow; she began the sewing where it had been dropped,
+and 'Thusia and Alice, because Rose sewed, took their needles. Work
+was what they needed. They missed Mary every hour, and David missed her
+most, for she had been his ablest assistant in his town charities, but
+the greater work thrown on him by her going was the best thing to keep
+his mind off the loss that caused it, and Rose Hinch intentionally
+refrained from giving her usual aid in order that the work might fill
+his time the more. Lucille Hardcome alone--no one could have made
+Lucille understand--doubled her assistance. The annoyance her
+ill-considered help caused him was also good for David; it too helped
+him to forget other things.
+
+Grandfather Fragg died within the year. Rose had long since left the
+manse, unwilling to be an expense after she was no longer needed, and
+had taken up her nursing again, for she was always in demand. As each
+six months ended David carried a new note to Lucille, and had a new
+battle with her, for she wanted no note; she urged him to consider the
+loan a gift. This he would not listen to. He had cut his expenses to the
+lowest possible figure, and was able to pay Lucille a little each time
+now--fifty dollars, or twenty-five, or whatever sum it was possible to
+save. He managed to keep out of debt. Alice, who had rightly asked new
+frocks and this and that when Ben was alive, seemed to want nothing
+whatever. She did not mope but she seemed to consider her life now
+ordered, not completed, but to be as it now was. She was dearer to David
+and 'Thusia than ever, and they did not urge her to desert them. In time
+she would, they hoped, forget and be young again, but she waited
+too long, and they let her, and she was never to leave them. Her
+indifference to things outside the manse and the church permitted David
+to save a few dollars he might otherwise have spent on her. So few were
+they that what he was able to pay Lucille represented it.
+
+For some time after the tragedy that had come so suddenly David had no
+heart to take up the question he had discussed with the banker. Burton,
+of course, said nothing when not approached, regarding the increase in
+David's stipend. He did mention to David, however, the desired increase
+in Lucille's subscription, and with the death of Mary Derling this
+increase became more desirable than ever. Old Sam Wiggett and, after his
+death, Mary, had been the most liberal supporters of the church. It
+was found, when Mary's will was read, that she had left the church ten
+thousand dollars as an endowment. Of this only the interest could be
+used, and her contributions, with what Ben gave, had amounted to far
+more--to several hundred dollars more.
+
+More than ever Lucille loomed large as the most important member of
+the church. With the wiping out of the last of the Wiggett strain in
+Riverbank, the Wiggett money went to Derlings in other places, and
+Lucille became, by promotion, seemingly the wealthiest Presbyterian.
+Burton wrinkled his brow over the church finances, but, luckily, no
+repairs were needed, and there was a little money in the bank, and
+Mary's endowment legacy made his statements look well on paper. I think
+you can understand how the trustees and the church went ahead placidly,
+month following month, unworried, because feeling sure Lucille would
+presently do well by the church. She was like a rich uncle always about
+to die and leave a fortune, but never dying. It was understood that when
+her investments were satisfactorily arranged she would act. At first
+this reason may have been real, but Lucille knew the value of being
+sought. Like the rich, undying uncle she commanded more respect as a
+prospective giver than she would have received having given.
+
+It was extremely distasteful to David to have to ask Lucille to give; it
+seemed like asking her to pay herself what he owed her, and when he had
+done his duty by asking her several times, he agreed with Burton that
+the banker could handle the matter best. A year, more or less, after
+Mary Derling's death the banker was able to announce that Lucille had
+agreed to give two hundred dollars a year more than she had been giving,
+and that as soon as she was able she would give more.
+
+She spoke of the two hundred dollars as a trifle. It brought the church
+income to about where it had been before Mary Derling's death.
+
+Without actually formulating the idea, Lucille had suggested to herself
+that she would celebrate her conquest of David Dean by increasing her
+yearly gift to the church to the utmost she could afford. Her blind
+self-admiration led her to think she was making progress. David was
+always the kindest of men, gentle and showing the pleasure he felt in
+having companionship in good works, and Lucille probably mistook this
+for a narrower, personal admiration. It was inevitable that he should be
+intimate with her, she directed so many of the church activities. If he
+were to speak of the choir, the Sunday school, church dinners, any of a
+dozen things, he must speak to Lucille. They were often together. They
+walked up the hill from church together, Banker Burton often with them;
+Lucille, in her low-hung carriage, frequently carried David to visit his
+sick, and he considered it thoughtful kindness.
+
+Many in Riverbank still remember David Dean, as he sat back against
+the maroon cushions of the Hardcome carriage, Lucille erect and never
+silent. He seemed weary during those years--for Lucille courted him
+slowly--but he never faltered in his work. If anything he was doubly
+useful to the town, and doubly helpful and inspiring to his church
+people. Sorrow had mellowed him without breaking him. He had been with
+Lucille on a visit to a boy, one of the Sunday school lads who had
+broken a leg, and Lucille had taken a bag of oranges. The house was on
+the other side of the town, and Lucille drove through the main street,
+stopping at the post office to let David get his mail. He met some
+friend in the office, and came out with a smile on his lips, his mail
+in his hand. Lucille dropped him at the manse. He walked to the little
+porch and sat there, tearing open the few unimportant letters, and
+glancing at the contents. There was one paper, and he tore off the
+wrapper. It was the _Declarator_. He tore it twice across, and then
+curiosity, or a desire to know what he might have to battle against,
+made him open the sheet and look at the “Briefs.” The column began:
+
+“It is entirely proper for a minister of the gospel to ride hither and
+yon with whomsoever he chooses, male or female, wife or widow, when his
+debts are paid. We should love our neighbors.”
+
+“A minister of the gospel is, like Caesar's wife, above suspicion. _Honi
+soit!_ Shame upon you for thinking evil of the spotless.”
+
+David read to the bottom of the column. It was stupid venom, the slime
+of a pen grown almost childish, lacking even the sparkle of wit, but it
+was aimed so directly at him that he burned with resentment. The last
+line was the vilest: “Who paid the parson's debts?” suggesting the truth
+that Lucille had paid them, as the rest of the column suggested that
+she and David were more intimate than they should be. He sat holding the
+paper until 'Thusia called him. Before he went to her he walked to
+the kitchen, and burned the paper in the kitchen stove, and washed his
+hands.
+
+
+
+
+XXIV. RESULTS
+
+
+THE following day was Sunday. Lucille, who had received and read the
+_Declarator_, was present at both morning and evening services, as
+usual, and took her full part in the Sunday school in the afternoon.
+Welsh's column had annoyed her, undoubtedly, but in another way than
+it had annoyed David. To David it had seemed the cruel and unfounded
+spitefulness of a wicked-minded old man; to Lucille it was as if Welsh
+had guessed close to the truth, but had carried his imagination too far.
+It had made her furiously angry, as such a thing would, but she felt
+that it would do her little harm. Welsh was known to be so vile that she
+had but to hold her head high, and the town and her friends would think
+none the less of her for the attack. Those who did believe it, if there
+were any, would by their belief be offering her a sort of incense she
+coveted.
+
+Several spoke to David about the column, and all with genuine
+indignation. The story of Welsh's attack had spread, of course, but none
+of us who knew David Dean thought one iota of truth was in it; the thing
+was preposterous. It came down to this: David Dean was not the kind of
+man of which such things were possible. We did not believe it then, and
+we never believed it. The town did not believe it; even his few enemies
+knew him better than to believe such a thing; Welsh himself did not
+believe it. But Lucille Hardcome did, conceit-blinded creature that she
+was! Some day during the week, Wednesday it may have been, she drove her
+low-hung carriage to the manse. The driver's seat was a flat affair on
+X-shaped iron rods, so arranged that it could be turned back out of the
+way when Lucille wished to drive and dispense with her coachman, and she
+was driving now. David came to the door, and went in to get his hat.
+He wished to visit the same broken-legged boy, and the carriage was
+a grateful assistance. He spread the thin lap robe over his legs, and
+Lucille touched the horses with the whip.
+
+“Jimmy's first?” she asked, and David assented.
+
+“You have oranges again, I see,” he said. “How he enjoys them!”
+
+“Doesn't he?” Lucille replied, and then: “I'm glad you do not mean
+to let that _Declarator_ article make any difference. I was afraid it
+might. You are so sensitive, David.”
+
+It was the first time she had called him David. Mary had called him
+that, and Rose did; he was David to many of us; but the name did not
+sound right coming from Lucille's mouth. She was so lordly, so queenly,
+usually so rather grandly aloof, calling even dear Thusia “Mrs. Dean,”
+ and Rose “Miss Hinch.”
+
+“Sensitive! I have never thought that of myself,” he answered.
+
+“Oh, but you are!” she said. “I know you so well, you see. I almost
+feared that article would frighten you away; make you afraid of me. As
+if you and I need be afraid of each other!”
+
+“I'm sure we need not be,” David answered, and she glanced at his face.
+She did not quite like the tone.
+
+“I thought you might not come with me today,” she said. “If you had
+suggested that, I meant to rebel, naturally. Now, if ever, that would
+be a mistake. That would be the very thing to make people talk. Your
+friendship means too much to me to let it be interrupted by what people
+say.”
+
+“It need not be interrupted,” said David.
+
+“It means so much more to me than you imagine,” Lucille said. “Often I
+think you don't realize how empty my life was when I began to know you.
+You are so modest, so self-effacing, you do not know your worth. If you
+knew the full story of my childhood and girlhood, so empty and loveless,
+and even my short year of married life, so lacking in love, you would
+know what your friendship has meant. Just to know a man like you meant
+so much. It gave life a new meaning.”
+
+Unfortunately you cannot see Lucille Hardcome as David saw her when he
+turned his face toward her, perplexed by her words, not able to believe
+what her tone implied, until he saw her face. She had grown heavier in
+the years she had been in Riverbank, and flabbier--or flabby--for she
+was not that when she came to the town. She wore one of the flamboyant
+hats she affected, and she was beautifully overdressed. The red of her
+cheeks was too deep to be natural. She was artificial and the
+artificiality extended to her mind and her heart, and could not but be
+apparent to one so sincere as David Dean. Her very words were
+artificial, as she spoke. The same words coming from another woman would
+have been the sincere cry of a heart thankful for the friendship David
+had given; coming from Lucille they sounded false; they sounded, as they
+were, the love-making of a shallow woman.
+
+David was frightened; he was as frightened as a boy who suddenly finds
+himself enfolded in the arms of a lovesick cook, half smothered, and
+only anxious to kick himself out of the sudden embrace. He saw, as if a
+dozen curtains of gauze had suddenly been withdrawn, the meaning of many
+of Lucille's words and actions he had formerly seen through the veils of
+misunderstanding. There was something comical in his dismay. He wanted
+to jump from the low-hung carriage and run. He said:
+
+“Yes. I'm quite sure--”
+
+“So it means so much to me that we are not to let anything make a
+difference,” Lucille continued. “I think we need each other. In your
+work a woman's sympathy--”
+
+“I think I'll have to get out,” David said. “I'll just run in here
+and--”
+
+He waved a hand toward a shop at the side of the street. It happened to
+be a tobacconist's, but he did not notice that. He threw the lap
+robe from his knees, and put a foot ont of the carriage. Lucille was
+surprised. She stopped her horses. She thought David might mean to buy
+a package of tobacco for some old man he had in mind. He stepped to the
+walk. Once there he felt safer; his wits returned.
+
+“I think I'll walk, if you don't mind,” he said. “I need the exercise.
+No, really, I'll walk. Thank you.”
+
+Lucille looked after him.
+
+“Well!” she exclaimed, and then: “I'm through with you, Mr. David Dean!”
+
+She thought she was haughtily indifferent, but at heart she was
+furiously angry. She turned her horses, and drove home. To prove how
+indifferent she was she told her coachman, in calm tones, to grease the
+harness and, entering the house, she told her maid to wash the parlor
+windows. She went to her room quite calmly and thought: “What impudence!
+He imagined I was making love to him!” and then, as evidence that she
+was calm and untroubled, she seated herself at her desk, and wrote a
+calm and businesslike note to David Dean. It said that, as she was in
+some need of money, she would have to ask that his note be paid as soon
+as it fell due. She still believed she was not angry, but how does that
+line go? Is it “Earth hath no fury like a woman scorned”?
+
+
+
+
+XXV. LUCILLE LOSES
+
+
+WHEN it was announced that Lucille Hardcome was to marry B. C. Burton,
+Riverbank was interested, but not surprised. The banker went up and down
+the hill, from and to his business, quite as usual, but with a
+little warmer and more ready smile for those he met. He accepted
+congratulations gracefully. After the wedding, which was quite an event,
+with a caterer from Chicago, and the big house lighted from top to
+bottom and every coach the town liverymen owned making half a dozen
+trips apiece, there was a wedding journey to Cuba. When the bridal
+couple returned to Riverbank Lucille drove B. C. to and from the bank in
+the low-hung carriage, and B. C. changed his abode from his own house to
+Lucille's. Otherwise the marriage seemed to make little difference. For
+Dominie Dean it made this difference: the only trustee who had, of late
+years, shown any independence lost even the little he had shown. Having
+married Lucille, he became no more than her representative on the board
+of trustees.
+
+Never a forceful man, Burton became milder and gentler than ever after
+his marriage. He had not married Lucille under false colors (Lucille
+had married B. C.; had reached for him and absorbed him), but, without
+caring much, she had imagined him a wealthy man. When it developed that
+he had almost nothing but his standing as a suave and respected banker,
+Lucille, while saying nothing, gently put him in his place, as her
+wedded pensioner. She had hoped she would be able to put on him the
+burden of her rather complicated affairs, but when she guessed his
+inefficiency as a money-manager for himself, she gave up the thought.
+Lucille continued to manage her own fortune. She financed the house.
+All this made of B. C. a very meek and gentle husband. He did nothing
+to annoy Lucille. He was particularly careful to avoid doing anything
+to annoy Lucille. He became, more than ever, a highly respectable
+nonentity. Having, for many years, successfully prevented the town
+from guessing that he was a mere figurehead for the bank, he had little
+trouble in preventing it from saying too loudly that he was only not
+henpecked because he never raised his crest in matters concerning
+Lucille, except at her suggestion.
+
+Lucille did not marry B. C. to salve her self-conceit only; not solely.
+She felt the undercurrent of comment that followed Welsh's ugly attack
+in the _Declarator_. She feared that people would say if they said
+anything: “David Dean is not that kind of man” and “Lucille Hardcome
+probably thought nothing of the sort, but she is that kind of woman.”
+ Marrying B. C. Burton was her way of showing Riverbank she had never
+cared for David Dean. It also gave her a secure position of prominence
+in Riverbank. Her house was now a home, and we think very highly of
+homes in Riverbank. None the less Lucille still burned with resentment
+against David Dean. The mere sight of him was an accusation; seeing him
+afflicted her pride.
+
+The dominie went about his duties as usual Then or later we saw no
+change in David Dean, although we must have known how Lucille was using
+every effort to turn the trustees and the church against him. He must
+have had, too, a sense of undeserved but ineradicable defilement, the
+result of P. K. Welsh's virulence. You know how such things cling to
+even the most innocent. If nothing more is said than “It is too bad it
+happened,” it has its faintly damning effect on us. We won for David
+at last, but Lucille's fight to drive him away had its effect. At home
+David hesitated over every penny spent, cut his expenses to the lowest
+possible, in an effort to pay Lucille as much as he might when the note
+came due. He had no hope of paying it in full.
+
+Pay it, however, he did. One afternoon Rose Hinch came into his study
+and closed the door.
+
+“David,” she said, “you surely know that I know you owe Lucille
+something--some money?”
+
+“I suppose you do, Rose,” he said sadly. “Everyone knows!”
+
+“'Thusia told me long ago,” she said. “I asked her about it again
+to-day. I would rather you owed it to me, David.”
+
+She had the money with her, and she held it toward him questioningly. He
+took it. That was all; there was no question of a note or of repayment;
+no spoken thanks. He was not surprised that Rose had saved so much out
+of her earnings, neither did he hesitate to take the money from her, for
+he knew she offered it in all the kindness of her heart. He hoped, too,
+that by scrimping, as he had been, he could repay her in time.
+
+'Thusia was neither better nor worse in health than she had been. Bright
+and cheerful, she had learned the great secret of patience.
+
+“If I must go,” David told her when there was no doubt that Lucille had
+set her heart on driving him from Riverbank, “I will go, of course; but
+until I know I am not wanted I will do my work as usual,” and 'Thusia
+was with him in that.
+
+In the long battle, never above the surface, that Lucille carried on,
+David never openly fought her. He fought by being David Dean, and
+by doing, day by day, as he had done for years. He visited his sick,
+preached his sermons, busied himself as always. The weapons Lucille used
+were those a woman powerful in a congregation has always at hand if she
+chooses to try to oust her pastor, and in addition she used her husband.
+
+Here and there she dropped hints that David was not as satisfactory
+as formerly. His sermons were lacking in something. Was it culture or
+sincerity! she asked--and she questioned the advisability of long tenure
+of a pulpit. By hint and question she tried to arouse dissatisfaction.
+It was the custom for ministers to exchange pulpits; she was loud in
+praise of whatever minister occupied David's pulpit for a day.
+
+Slowly she built up the dissatisfaction, until she felt it could be
+crystallized into a concrete opposition. She was a year or more doing
+this. With all the wile of a political boss she spread the seed of
+discontent, trusting it would fall on fertile soil. There were plenty
+of toadying women who gave her lip agreement when she uttered her
+disparagements, and at length she felt she could strike openly. She used
+B. C. for the purpose.
+
+B. C. did not relish the job. Like most of us he admired David, and had
+high esteem for him, but Lucille's husband would have been the last
+man to oppose Lucille. It really seemed an easy task. Lucille was an
+undisputed ruler in the church; the trustees were nonentities; the
+older members--those who had loved the young David in his first years
+in Riverbank--were dead or senile. B. C. spoke of the finances when he
+broached the matter of getting rid of David, and he had lists and tables
+to show that the income of the church had been stagnant. He suggested
+that a younger man, someone livelier, was needed--a money-raiser.
+
+The trustees listened in silence. For some minutes after B. C. had
+spoken no one answered. Then one man--the last man B. C. would have
+feared--suggested mildly that Riverbank itself had not grown. He
+ventured to say that Riverbank, to his notion, had fewer people than
+five years before, and all the churches were having trouble in keeping
+their incomes up to their expenses. He said he rather liked David Dean;
+anyway he didn't think a change need be made right away. They might, he
+thought, ask some of the church members and get their opinions. He said
+he did not believe they could get a man equal to David for the same
+money.
+
+B. C. was taken aback. If he had spoken at once he might have held his
+control of the board, but he stopped to think of Lucille and what she
+would wish him to say, and the daring trustee spoke again.
+
+“Seems to me,” he said, “the trouble is not with the dominie. Seems to
+me we trustees ought to try to get more money from some of the members
+who can afford to give more.”
+
+He had not aimed at B. C. and Lucille, but B. C. colored. One shame that
+lurked in his heart was that Lucille had never kept her promise to give
+more to the church, and that he did not dare ask her to give more now.
+
+“I can assure you,” he said, “I do not feel like giving more--if you
+mean me--while Dean remains.”
+
+“Oh! I didn't mean anyone in particular,” the trustee said. “I wasn't
+thinking of you, B. C.” The fact remained imbedded in the brains of the
+trustees that Lucille and B. C. would give no more unless David was sent
+away. This leaked, as such things will, and those of us who loved
+David were properly incensed. Some of us were tired enough of Lucille's
+high-handed rulership and we said openly what we thought of her carrying
+it to the point of making herself dictator of the pulpit, to dismiss
+and call at her will. There was a vast amount of whisper and low-toned
+wordiness, subsurface complaint and counter-complaint. There was no open
+flare-up such as had marked the earlier dissensions in the church, but
+Lucille and her closest friends could not but feel the resentment and
+her growing unpopularity. A winter rain brought her a fortunate cold,
+and she turned the Sunday school singing over to one of the younger
+women. She never took it up again. The same excuse served to allow her
+to drop out of the management of the church music. Her cold, actually or
+from policy, hung on for the greater part of that winter, preventing her
+from attending church. With the next election of trustees B. C. refused
+reëlection, pleading an increase of work at the bank, and when next
+Lucille went to church she sat under the Episcopalian minister. Several
+of her friends followed her; few as they were, their going made a
+sad hole in the church income and, with the closing of the mills and
+Riverbank seemingly about to sink into a sort of deserted village
+condition, there followed years in which the trustees were hard put
+to it to keep things going. Before the inevitable reduction in David's
+salary came, he was able to pay Rose Hinch, and that, in the later
+years, was one of the things he was thankful for.
+
+
+
+
+XXVI. “OUR DAVID”
+
+I GET back to Riverbank but seldom. I have just returned from one of
+my infrequent visits there, the first in many years. First I had my
+business to attend to; later, at the office of the lawyer and on the
+street, I met many of those I had known when I lived in Riverbank. The
+faces of most puzzled me, being not quite remembered. My memory had
+to struggle to recognize them, as if it saw the faces through a ground
+glass on which it had to breathe before they became clear. Many seemed
+glad to see me again and that was a great pleasure to me. It was almost
+like a game of “hidden faces” but with faces of living men and women
+to be guessed. This all happened in the first hour or so after I had
+finished my business, and rapidly, and then I turned from one of these
+resurrected faces to find a young girl standing waiting to speak to me.
+
+“You don't remember me,” she said with a smile, because she saw my
+puzzled face. “I was a baby when you went away. Dora Graham. You
+wouldn't remember me. Mack Graham is my father. I dared to speak to you
+because father has spoken of you so often--of you and Mr. Dean.”
+
+“Oh, I do remember Mack!” I exclaimed. “I must see him if I can before I
+go.”
+
+“Please,” she said. “It would mean so much to him.”
+
+She was not too well-dressed. She reminded me of Alice Dean in the days
+when Lanny was courting her, making the bravest show she could with
+her cheap, neat hat and neat, inexpensive garments. I guessed that Mack
+Graham was not one of the town's new rich men.
+
+“I'll see him if I have to stay over a day,” I told her. “And our
+dominie, Dominie Dean, you can tell me how to get to his house!”
+
+“I'm just from there,” she said. “Are you going to see him? He will be
+so pleased; he spoke about you. You know he is very poor? It's pitiful;
+it makes my heart ache every time I go there.”
+
+“But I thought--” I said.
+
+“About his being made pastor emeritus? Yes, they did that for him.
+Father made them do that, when they were going to drop him out of the
+church as they always used to drop the old men. Father fought for that.
+We were so proud of father, mother and I. He was like a rock, like a
+mountain of rock, about it. They were afraid of him. But the money was
+nothing, almost nothing.”
+
+“How much?” I asked, but she did not know that. She only knew that it
+must be very little; the new dominie would not come for what had
+been paid David; there had not been much to spare for a discarded and
+worn-out old man.
+
+I walked up the hill and over the hill and down the other side, to where
+the cheap little cottages stand in a row facing the deserted brickyard
+which will, some day, be town lots. I found David on the little porch,
+sitting in the sun, and he arose as I entered the gate, and stood
+waiting to grasp my hand, although he could not yet see me distinctly
+enough to recognize me; his eyes were failing, he told me.
+
+He was very feeble, but as gently cheerful as ever, still striving to
+keep an even mind under all circumstances. Alice came out when she heard
+us talking; she looked older, in worry, than her father. It was evident
+they were very poor.
+
+I went up to see 'Thusia. I did not mind the narrow stairs nor the
+low-ceiled room in which I found her, for a home and happiness may be
+anywhere, but I felt a hot, personal shame that anything quite so mean
+should be the reward of our David.
+
+It was harder to speak cheerfully with 'Thusia than with David. I would
+not have known her, so little of her was there left, the blue veins
+standing out under the skin of her shrunken hands, and her face not
+at all that of the 'Thusia I had known when I was a child. I talked of
+myself and of my family and of my little successes, and all the while
+I felt that she must see through me, and that she must know I was
+chattering to hide the pain I felt at seeing these dear friends so
+changed, and so deep in poverty. In this I was mistaken. Her only
+thought was gratitude that I had found time to come to them, and
+pleasure to know all was well with me.
+
+“You'll come when you come to Riverbank again,” she said when I had to
+leave her, “It has done me so much good to see you. Now go down and give
+David the rest of your visit.”
+
+She raised her hand for me to take in farewell.
+
+“God has been very good to us,” she said.
+
+When I went down Alice had brought her sewing to the porch, and had
+carried out a chair for me--such a shabby chair--and Rose Hinch was
+there. She hurriedly hid a paper parcel behind her skirt when she
+arose to greet me, but it toppled over and a raw potato rolled out. I
+pretended to be unaware of it. I knew then that our David still had one
+friend, and guessed who reminded the older church members that David
+and 'Thusia might some days go hungry, unless they received such alms as
+were given to the very poor.
+
+I sat for an hour, talking with David and Rose and Alice, and for an
+hour tried to forget that this poverty was David's reward for a life
+spent in serving God and his people, and then Rose and I left, and I
+walked over the hill with her. We talked of David, and when I told her I
+was going to see Mack Graham she said she would go with me.
+
+The small real estate office, on a second floor, was not as shabby as I
+had expected, nor was Mack Graham as shabby.
+
+“Big family, that's all the matter with me,” he told me cheerfully. “I
+want you to come up to dinner if you can and meet my brood. So you've
+been up to see our David! How is he to-day!”
+
+“Mack,” I said, “can't something be done! Can't someone here start
+something! I know how a place gets in a rut--how we forget the things we
+have with us day by day. If you could go away, as I went, and come back
+to see our David as he is now, poor, discarded, neglected--”
+
+“Rose, what do you mean, neglecting our David!” Mack asked, almost
+gayly.
+
+Rose smiled sadly.
+
+“Well, I'll tell you,” Mack said, reaching for an envelope on his desk.
+“Our church is changed. Most of the old people are gone now. I felt the
+way you did about it--it was a pity our David wasn't a horse instead
+of a man; then we could have shot him when we had worn him out and were
+through with him. Folks forget things, don't they! Well--”
+
+He drew a letter from the envelope and passed it to me.
+
+When I had read the letter I was not quite as ashamed of my kind as I
+had been a moment before. The letter did not promise much. It seemed
+there was not a great deal of money available and the calls were many,
+but, after all, there was a Fund and it could spare something for David,
+as much, perhaps, as a child could earn picking berries in a season each
+year. But it would mean all the difference between penury and dread
+of the poorhouse on the one hand and safety on the other to David. I
+thought how glad David would be and how grateful. I handed the letter to
+Rose Hinch.
+
+She read it in silence and when she looked up there were tears in her
+eyes.
+
+“I am so glad--for 'Thusia,” she said. “She has worried so for fear
+David might have to go to the poorhouse--alone! She has been afraid to
+die; David would have been so lonely in the poor-house.”
+
+“Well, it is great anyway!” said Mack more noisily than necessary. “So
+come up to the house to dinner. You, too, Rose. We'll give our dominie
+the letter. We'll have him come to dinner, too, and Alice, and we'll
+celebrate--”
+
+Rose smiled, as she used to smile in the days when I first knew her.
+
+“No, Mack,” she said. “We will give him the letter when he has put on
+his hat and coat, and is going home. He will want 'Thusia to be the
+first to be glad with him.”
+
+So that was how it was done.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dominie Dean, by Ellis Parker Butler
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOMINIE DEAN ***
+
+***** This file should be named 44220-0.txt or 44220-0.zip *****
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+        http://www.gutenberg.org/4/4/2/2/44220/
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
+one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
+(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
+permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
+set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
+copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
+protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
+Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
+charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
+do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
+rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
+such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
+research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
+practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
+subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
+redistribution.
+
+
+
+*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
+Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at
+  www.gutenberg.org/license.
+
+
+Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works
+
+1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
+all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
+If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
+terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
+entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+
+1.B.  “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark.  It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
+paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
+and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation”
+ or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
+collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
+individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
+located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
+copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
+works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
+are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
+Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
+freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
+this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
+the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
+keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
+a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
+the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
+before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
+creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
+Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
+the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
+States.
+
+1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
+access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
+whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
+phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
+Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
+copied or distributed:
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
+from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
+posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
+and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
+or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
+with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the
+work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
+through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
+Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
+1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
+terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
+to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
+permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
+word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
+distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
+“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version
+posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
+you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
+copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
+request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other
+form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
+that
+
+- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
+     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
+     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
+     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
+     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
+     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
+     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
+     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
+     address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to
+     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
+
+- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+     License.  You must require such a user to return or
+     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
+     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
+     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
+     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
+     of receipt of the work.
+
+- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
+forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
+both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
+Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
+Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
+collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
+“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
+property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
+computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
+your equipment.
+
+1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
+of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
+your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
+the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
+refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
+providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
+receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
+is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
+opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
+WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
+If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
+law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
+interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
+the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
+provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
+with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
+promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
+harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
+that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
+or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
+work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
+Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
+
+
+Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
+including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
+because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
+people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
+To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
+and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
+Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
+permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
+Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
+throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at 809
+North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887.  Email
+contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the
+Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
+
+For additional contact information:
+     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
+     Chief Executive and Director
+     gbnewby@pglaf.org
+
+Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
+spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
+SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
+particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
+To donate, please visit:  www.gutenberg.org/donate
+
+
+Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
+concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
+with anyone.  For forty years, he produced and distributed Project
+Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
+unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
+keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
+
+Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
+
+     www.gutenberg.org
+
+This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+
diff --git a/44220-0.zip b/44220-0.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e6b731c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/44220-0.zip
diff --git a/44220-h.zip b/44220-h.zip
index 3d14c57..b27dfc8 100644
--- a/44220-h.zip
+++ b/44220-h.zip
diff --git a/44220-h/44220-h.htm b/44220-h/44220-h.htm
index 2d8e53a..dce7e36 100644
--- a/44220-h/44220-h.htm
+++ b/44220-h/44220-h.htm
@@ -1,4 +1,4 @@
-<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
+<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
 
 <!DOCTYPE html
 PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
@@ -6,7 +6,6 @@ PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
 
 <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
 <head>
-  <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" />
 <title>
 Dominie Dean, by Ellis Parker Butler
 </title>