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diff --git a/44220-0.txt b/44220-0.txt index 467d2d1..82ab1fe 100644 --- a/44220-0.txt +++ b/44220-0.txt @@ -1,35 +1,4 @@ -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 - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44220 *** DOMINIE DEAN @@ -7572,358 +7541,4 @@ So that was how it was done. 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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 - - - - - -</pre> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44220 ***</div> <div style="height: 8em;"> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> @@ -8978,378 +8944,6 @@ So that was how it was done. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div> - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -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-h.htm or 44220-h.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. 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-Dominie Dean, by Ellis Parker Butler
-</title>
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-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
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
-<div style="height: 8em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h1>
-DOMINIE DEAN
-</h1>
-<h3>
-A Novel
-</h3>
-<h2>
-By Ellis Parker Butler
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<h3>
-1917
-</h3>
-<h5>
-Fleming And Revell Company
-</h5>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="frontispiece" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-<br />
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:80%;">
-<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p>
-<br /> <br />
-</p>
-<blockquote>
-<p>
-My Dear Mr. Dare:
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Most sincerely,
-</p>
-<p>
-Ellis Parker Butler
-</p>
-<p>
-Flushing, N. Y.
-</p>
-</blockquote>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<p>
-<b>CONTENTS</b>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I. 'THUSIA </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. MARY WIGGETT </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. THE COPPERHEAD </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV. ROSE HINCH </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V. CHURCH TROUBLES </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI. THE BLACK PRUNELLA GAITERS </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII. MACK </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII. THE GREATER GOOD </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX. LUCILLE HARDCOME </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X. LUCILLE DISCOVERS DAVID </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI. STEVE TERRILL </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII. MONEY MATTERS </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII. A SURPRISE </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV. LUCILLE HELPS </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV. LANNY </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0016"> XVI. AN INTERVIEW </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0017"> XVII. LUCILLE TO THE RESCUE </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0018"> XVIII. MR. FRAGG WORRIES </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0019"> XIX. “BRIEFS” </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0020"> XX. LANNY IS AWAY </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0021"> XXI. A FAILURE </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0022"> XXII. A TRAGEDY </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0023"> XXIII. SCANDAL </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0024"> XXIV. RESULTS </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0025"> XXV. LUCILLE LOSES </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#link2H_4_0026"> XXVI. “OUR DAVID” </a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<p>
-<b>List of Illustrations</b>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#linkimage-0002"> Mary </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#linkimage-0003"> Copperhead </a>
-</p>
-<p class="toc">
-<a href="#linkimage-0004"> Rose </a>
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-I. 'THUSIA
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>AVID 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-She turned and came.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He turned his back on 'Thusia and led David away.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The less you have to do with that girl the better,” were his first words.
-“That's for your own good. Hey, Long?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My opinion, my opinion exactly!” echoed Mr. Long. “The less the better.
-Yes, yes!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes, coming!” said David cheerfully, and he gave the old lady a last
-shake of the hand. “Now!” he said, and turned.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Thusia, pushing between Mr. Wiggett and Mr. Hoskins, came with her hand
-extended and her face glowing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come, come! Dinner's waiting!” Mr. Wiggett growled impatiently.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Mr. Wiggett's face was red.
-</p>
-<p>
-“<i>Her</i> dinner waiting!” he cried. “She's got to go home and get it
-before it waits. She's a forward, street-gadding hussy!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Father!” exclaimed his daughter.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, she shan't come it over the dominie,” he growled. “I'll speak to
-Fragg about it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-II. MARY WIGGETT
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:30%;">
-<img src="images/030.jpg" alt="Mary 030 " width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>EITHER 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-The stern-faced Wiggett listened to her grimly.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Father, I like David well enough to marry him, if he asked me,” was what
-she said.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'll tell that young man a thing or two!” growled Mr. Wiggett angrily.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No, not you, father,” Mary begged, and when he looked at her with
-surprise she blushed. “Huh!” he said, “why not?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, you want to marry him, don't you!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If he wants me. But—yes, I do like him, father.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David turned.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Arethusia Fragg?” he said. “You're mistaken, Benedict. I'm paying her no
-attention.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I meet her occasionally,” said David. “I have seen no wrong in that.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Thank you, Benedict,” he said at length. “I understand. I am through with
-'Thusia!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know what you mean,” said David. “If her mother had lived 'Thusia might
-have been different. But does that concern me, Benedict?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It does not,” grinned the old doctor. “How long have you been calling her
-'Thusia, Davy?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My first duty is to my church,” said David. “A minister should be above
-reproach in the eyes of his people.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Without 'Thusy,” said Benedict.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I will,” said David, and she turned away. She turned back again
-immediately.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” said David, “I feel that too.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, then, it will be all right!” said Mary happily. “And remember,
-change your clothes as soon as you get home, David Dean!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Then he climbed the stairs to change his wet garments as Mary had wisely
-ordered.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-III. THE COPPERHEAD
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:30%;">
-<img src="images/046.jpg" alt="Copperhead " width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yeh! you Copperhead!” the old man's tormentor shouted after him.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Why did you do that!” Mary asked. “Don't you know them! They're
-Copperheads.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“She was badly spattered. She seemed at a loss what to do.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Didn't you <i>know</i> they were Copperheads!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I did not know. That would have made no difference. She was distressed.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who is it!” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That Copperhead farmer,” said 'Thusia.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Stop this! Stop this!” he cried.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Someone laughed. Old Hinch did not drive away.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“We told the Copperhead to take off his hat to the flag,” they told David,
-“and he damned the war. Somebody hit him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He is an old man,” said David. “You can show your patriotism better than
-by striking an old man.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-IV. ROSE HINCH
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:30%;">
-<img src="images/058.jpg" alt="Rose 058 " width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes. The Copperhead's wife. She's not sick, I hope.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What ails him!” David asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David turned in his chair.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you came for me? You were right, Benedict. You want me to go to him!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I remember. I picked it up and gave it to him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It might well make him hate the war,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He may well hate it,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Before giving up all hope David persuaded Dr. Benedict to see Mary. The
-good doctor returned somewhat dazed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But would she give you no reason?” asked David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, 'Thusia!” he queried.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-David listened quietly. When 'Thusia had ended, he sat looking out of the
-window, thinking.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And they think I am a Copperhead!” said David at length.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is all because they do not understand,” said David, rising. “I can
-tell them. When I explain they will understand.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-David met him at the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Davy,” the doctor said, clasping his hand, “she is dead,” and David knew;
-he meant Mrs. Hinch.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And Hinch?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Will I do! Can I go!” she asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, and bless you for it!” the doctor exclaimed. “Get in my buggy.
-You'll come, David!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Of course! But Hinch—he came to town! Why?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He had to get the coffin, Davy.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David hurried into his coat.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Kill the Copperhead!” someone shouted and an arm shot out to grasp the
-old man.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's how we treat a Copperhead!” he cried, and the old man, a bullet
-hole in his forehead, fell forward at his feet.
-</p>
-<p>
-You will not find a word regarding the murder in the <i>Riverbank Eagle</i>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Rose Hinch will be all alone now,” 'Thusia said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” David said.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Thusia looked down.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Do you—will she get work,” she asked, “or is she going to marry
-someone.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know she is not going to marry,” David said promptly. “She knows no one—no
-young men.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I like Rose, but I am not a candidate for her hand, if that is what you
-mean,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Thusia suddenly felt infinitely silly and childish.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I mean—I don't mean—” she stammered. “I must not keep you
-standing here. Good-by.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Good-by,” David said, and turned away.
-</p>
-<p>
-He took a dozen steps up the path toward the manse. He stopped short and
-turned.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Thusia!” he called.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes?” she replied, and turned back.
-</p>
-<p>
-David walked to the gate and leaned upon it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What is it,” 'Thusia asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You asked about Rose Hinch. I think we should try to do something for her—”
- </p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Thusia, I know now!” David said. “I love you and I have always loved you
-and I shall love you forever.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Her heart stood still.
-</p>
-<p>
-“David! but we had better wait. We had better think it over,” she managed
-to say. “You had better—you're the dominie—I—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Don't you care for met” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What!” David asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll be the funniest wife for a dominie!” she said. “Oh, David, do you
-think I'll do!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-V. CHURCH TROUBLES
-</h2>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> </a>
-</p>
-<div class="fig" style="width:30%;">
-<img src="images/075.jpg" alt=" 075 " width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-During the first year of 'Thusia's married life
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mary is lovely!” 'Thusia told David.
-</p>
-<p>
-A year or two after Mary had thus made herself almost indispensable to
-'Thusia she married.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Rose,” David said, “you seem happy. Is this fine October air
-getting into your blood too?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am, Rose!” he answered. “Have you time to see 'Thusia for a minute or
-two. I know she wants to see you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Rose came out.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It's all settled. I'm coming,” she said, “and, oh, David! I am so glad!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“We are all glad,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Huh! what are you down here for!” he asked. He was never pleased when
-interrupted at his office. “Where's the baby!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I left him with nurse in the carriage,” said Mary. “Can't you say
-good-day to Ellen, father!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How are you!” said Mr. Wiggett briefly. Mrs. Hardcome acknowledged the
-greeting and waited for Mary to proceed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Huh!” growled Mr. Wiggett. “What's happening now!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But, father!” Mary insisted.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Father—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Father, <i>will</i> you let me say one word before you quite tear me to
-pieces! A great many people in our church <i>like</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, let it split! If we can't have peace—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“In a measure I do; yes,” said Ellen Hard-come.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-Old Sam Wiggett chuckled.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Who thought! Ellen never thought of that,” he said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I thought of it,” said Mary.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Mary did not ask him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Told me I wasn't fit to clean her husband's shoes!” said Wiggett.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I hope—” said Mary.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, you needn't, because I didn't,” said her father. “I didn't say
-anything. Turned my back on her and walked away.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Said that, did she!” chuckled Wiggett.
-</p>
-<p>
-“She said my upper register was squeaky, if you please!”
- </p>
-<p>
-'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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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!
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-VI. THE BLACK PRUNELLA GAITERS
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ETH 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The black prunella gaiters, David; the same that I always get. Mr.
-Hardcome will know,” she said.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Too bad!” said Mr. Hardcome, still shaking his head. “She's worn them.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why, certainly,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It has come to my ears,” said Mr. Hardcome, “that your wife is
-circulating a report that I am untruthful.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David almost gasped with astonishment. He could not imagine 'Thusia doing
-any such thing.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-On the way home he spoke to 'Thusia. She knew at once that the trouble
-must be something about the black prunella gaiters.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then it will be very easily settled,” said David. “We will tell him that
-when he comes to-night.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I have spoken to my wife,” he said, “and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-Little 'Thusia, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked up at David
-with wistful eagerness. David, stern enough now, shook his head.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Mrs. Dean cannot apologize for what she has not done.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was no mistaking David's tone. If he was angry he hid his anger; he
-was stating an unchangeable fact.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>coup de grâce</i>. 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You'll attend!” asked Hardcome.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And may we make you chairman!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There may be some there who will try to talk down any motion or
-resolution we may want to pass—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You leave them to me!” said Wiggett.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Benedict is so much better with children, George,” said Mary, looking up.
-“He seems to work miracles, sometimes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If he came in this house, I would throw him out,” said Derling. “I won't
-have him. That's flat!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, get Martin then, but I <i>don't</i> have the faith in him I have in
-Benedict,” Mary said.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-'Thusia drew back in horror.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Huh!” growled the old lumberman. “So it's you, is it? What are you doing
-here?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“There's a meeting—” David began.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-David had won.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-VII. MACK
-</h2>
-<div class="fig" style="width:30%;">
-<img src="images/105.jpg" alt="105" width="100%" /><br />
-</div>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>AVID 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes! Come in!” he said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“David! It's Mack—Mack Graham—he is drunk!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Mack drunk!” David cried, for he could not believe he had heard aright.
-“Not our Mack!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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 <i>emptiest</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-It was out of this chair David scrambled, full of fight, when 'Thusia
-brought him the news that Mack was drunk.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Mack and I want to have a talk, 'Thusia,” Amy said, and 'Thusia gathered
-up her sewing and fled to David.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is my fault,” he said. “I should have thought of him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-VIII. THE GREATER GOOD
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ACK 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-The hope of a call to a church that will pay enough to supply those few
-dollars is one many ministers' wives cherish.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-David put his hand on Mack's shoulder.
-</p>
-<p>
-“She <i>is</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Couldn't tell all about how fine a little girl she is in <i>one</i>
-walk,” he said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Come!” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The Mannings are still up,” said David, and Mack turned and looked out of
-the window.
-</p>
-<p>
-“God, but I am a beast!” said Mack.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You are worse than that, Mack, because you are a man,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mack,” he asked, “just how much of a hold has this drink got on you!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I can stop any time I—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David's thumbs tapped more and more slowly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If she sends him away one great influence will be lost,” said David. “She
-must not send him away.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, Mr. Dean is in,” she said. “I think he is napping. If you will just
-rest a minute until I see—”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mr. Benton, my wife said, I think!” asked David. “Shall we sit out here
-or go inside!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes. I tried to reach you after the service, but you slipped out.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I ran away,” admitted Mr. Benton. “I wanted to think that sermon over and
-cool down after it. It was a good sermon.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David waited.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know the church,” said David slowly. “It is a splendid church.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It <i>is</i> 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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The church pays the salary of the secretary,” he added.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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!
-</p>
-<p>
-Through the window he heard the voices of Mack and Amy.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is quite unexpected,” David said, opening his eyes. “I'll have to—you
-have no objection to my speaking to my wife?”
- </p>
-<p>
-The tinkling of ice in a pitcher sounded at the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“By all means, speak to her,” said Mr. Benton, and as 'Thusia tapped David
-arose and opened the door. 'Thusia entered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It—it's wonderful, David,” she said steadily, “but of course
-there's Mack—and Amy!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-IX. LUCILLE HARDCOME
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>N 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Little children, little children,
-Who love their Redeemer—”
- </pre>
-<p>
-with an arm that jingled with bracelets as her horses' bridles jingled
-with silver-plated chains.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-At first Lucille paid little attention to David. She treated him much as
-she treated the colorless Mr. Prell, <i>our</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I imagine you sometimes think the Old Harry is in the old walnut case,
-Miss Jane,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-She walked a few yards in silence, nerving herself to ask the question.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-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!
-</p>
-<p>
-“Have you spoken to her yet?” asked David, surprisingly unshocked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, will you? Will you?” cried little Miss Jane ecstatically. “Oh, if you
-will!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What do you talk about, over your good sherry and good cigars?” asked
-David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Afraid!” chuckled Father Moran. “You heard Mademoiselle play, and you say
-I am afraid! <i>Bon!</i> Ex-cellent! Come, we will interview
-Mademoiselle!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-There were intricacies of stops and keys, foot pedaling and fingering,
-that must be explained and practiced, but Mademoiselle early told Miss
-Hurley:
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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:
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, Lucille, if we have an organ like that we will have to have more of
-an organist than Jane Hurley!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Of course!” Lucille had said. “Jane Hurley and a pipe organ would be
-ridiculous!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You did not know,” he asked, “that Miss Hurley has been taking lessons
-from Mademoiselle Moran for a month or more!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lucille said nothing, but in her eyes David saw the resolve to be rid of
-Miss Hurley.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Miss Jane understands, I think,” David said, “that she is to continue as
-our organist. At no advance in salary,” he smiled.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-X. LUCILLE DISCOVERS DAVID
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>T 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!
-</p>
-<p>
-Lucille Hardcome was a large woman and much given to violent colors, but,
-to do her justice, she managed them with a <i>chic</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why—yes—yes—” Miss Jane stammered, twisting her
-handkerchief, “but—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-David opened the study door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But Mr. Wiggett is giving the organ, and Lucille really got it for the
-church—” Miss Hurley faltered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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!
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Professor Hedden, half turning on his seat, said:
-</p>
-<p>
-“While this next is hardly what I would call a complete composition, it
-may give you an idea of the capabilities of the organ.”
- </p>
-<p>
-When he ceased playing he said:
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is merely an exercise in technique, but I think it shows fairly well
-what can be done with a good organ.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Now let's hear Miss Hurley play something,” said Lucille in her sweetest
-voice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Hurley, cowering into her corner. “Not now, please!
-Not after that!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-As 'Thusia, David and Miss Jane were leaving the church Lucille, jingling
-with jewelry, swooped down upon them.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, Miss Hurley!” she called. “Just one minute, please!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Miss Jane stopped and turned.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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 <i>your</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The taunt was cruel and plain enough—that the congregation <i>would</i>
-leave if Miss Jane played—and Miss Jane reddened. Professor Hedden,
-with Sam Wiggett, came up to them.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course you must play!” he said through his beard, in his gruff, kindly
-voice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“But, I—I—” stammered Miss Jane.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Good-night! Good-night, all!” said Lucille. “It's all arranged, Miss
-Hurley,” and she bore the professor away.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I shall not dare!” Miss Jane said to David. “After such music as the
-professor will give! Even the biggest thing I know—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But you'll not play the biggest thing you know,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Following the benediction,” his dear voice announced, “our organist, Miss
-Hurley, will play while the congregation is being dismissed.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
-Let me hide myself in thee!”
- </pre>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
-Let me hide myself in thee!”
- </pre>
-<p>
-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:
-</p>
-<pre xml:space="preserve">
-“Rock of ages, cleft for me,
-Let me hide myself in thee!”
- </pre>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Thank you, Jane!” he said. “That's what we want—music, not
-fireworks!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He walked with David and 'Thusia and Miss Jane to the church door.
-Mademoiselle was there and she pounced upon Miss Jane.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Miss Jane blushed with pleasure.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XI. STEVE TERRILL
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>UCILLE 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>Riverbank Eagle</i>, 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Day, 'Thusia,” he said, quite as if they had not been strangers for
-years; “I wonder if Mr. Dean is in?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He's in,” said 'Thusia, “but this is the afternoon he works on his
-sermon. He tries not to see anyone.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I think you know who I am,” said Turrill, rubbing his hip. “I'm Turrill.
-I do a little in the gambling way.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” said David. “Is it about him?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He's going to kill himself,” said Turrill without emotion.
-</p>
-<p>
-David waited.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It is one of the things,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes! Well!” asked David.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I won his money,” said Turrill.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, I supposed so, or you wouldn't be here, would you!” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“The devil of it—” Turrill stopped. “The—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I dare say it is the devil of it,” said David. “Go on.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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>I</i> can do; what can you
-do?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Now David arose and walked the narrow space before Turrill.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I suppose his bondsmen will make good! He has bondsmen, hasn't he? I
-don't know much about such things.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Why!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Turrill made a gesture with his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You can see what you can do, if you want to,” Turrill said. “I can't do
-anything.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Anything!” said Turrill, and with that he went.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Thusia was in the kitchen and David went there.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“In half an hour?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes, I understand,” 'Thusia said. “'Something not too bright and good for
-human nature's daily food.' Is Marty's trouble serious!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, if it is hot rolls you can depend on me!” David smiled.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, dominie!”
- </p>
-<p>
-David put his hand on the back of one of the chairs near the little stove
-that heated the office.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“County or city!” asked Hardcome. “I guess there wasn't much spent outside
-the city.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I was thinking of the city,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well, we <i>raised</i> pretty close to four thousand dollars,” said
-Hardcome, “and we <i>spent</i> more than that. We <i>spent</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“To our four thousand,” said David. “Looking at it that way you couldn't
-call our money wasted, could you!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He smiled again, the pleased smile of a man who has got a dominie in a
-corner in argument. David smiled too.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“My stars!” exclaimed Hardcome, and stared at David in genuine surprise.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But—” Hardcome began. David raised his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It'll cost me two thousand dollars,” said Hardcome. “That's what it'll
-cost me!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And you call yourself a business man!” laughed David. “A business man!
-Look!”
- </p>
-<p>
-He picked up the roll of bank notes he had thrown on the shoe merchant's
-desk.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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 <i>gone!</i> 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 <i>save</i> five
-hundred dollars by saving Marty Ware's eternal soul!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Did I do that well?” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Sit down,” he said, still unsmilingly.
-</p>
-<p>
-David seated himself. Hardcome stood, half leaning against the desk,
-turning the roll of bills in his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Then this boy grew up—this Marty. I got him the place in the bank.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You did!” David exclaimed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Hardcome unrolled the money in his hand and smoothed it out.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He stopped, folded the bills, and slipped them into his pocket.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David was ont of his chair and his hand clasped Hardcome's hand. The old
-man laughed then, a little sheepishly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It would be coals of fire on her head,” smiled David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'Twould so!” said Seth Hardcome; “and I reckon the hair is getting pretty
-thin on the top of her head now, too!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Then he laughed. And David laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XII. MONEY MATTERS
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>OOKING 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>him</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Dominie—” he said.
-</p>
-<p>
-David knew what was coming, or imagined he did, and felt sick at heart.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes?” he queried.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was evidently sincere.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I know it, Brother Herwig,” David said. “You have been most lenient. I am
-ashamed. I will see what I can do.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“They let Lucille Hardcome walk on them,” I told David, but of course
-David would not admit that.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Lucille is very kind to 'Thusia,” he said.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XIII. A SURPRISE
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-B. C. was sitting at his desk, coatless but immaculate. He turned and
-smiled.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He did nothing to make David's way easy. His very smiling good nature made
-it more difficult. David plunged headlong into his business.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mr. Burton, could you—do you think the trustees would—grant
-me a further advance on my salary!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-He had not refused David; he had shown him that his request could not be
-granted.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course, then,” said David, “the trustees have nothing to advance, even
-were they so inclined. I thank you quite as much.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have not complained,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But what I owe him—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“She seems eager to give all the help she can.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“That is more than I ever dared hope,” said David. “It is kind of you to
-think of it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Before the manse Lucille Hardcome's low-hung carriage stood. He entered
-the house.
-</p>
-<p>
-“David!” called 'Thusia from the sitting room, and he hung his hat on the
-rack and went in to her.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Lucille is waiting in the study,” said 'Thusia. “She has been waiting an
-hour; Alice is with her.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Thusia, what has happened!” he cried, for his wife's face showed she had
-received a blow.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, David! David!” she exclaimed. “It is Alice! She is engaged!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not Alice! Not our Alice!” cried David. “But—”
- </p>
-<p>
-'Thusia burst into tears. She reached for his hand, and clung to it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Our Alice! Lanny Welsh!” said David, “But nothing of the sort can be
-allowed, 'Thusia. It cannot be!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I hoped you would say that!” said 'Thusia. “But don't wait now. Go to
-Lucille at once!”
- </p>
-<p>
-So David bent and kissed his wife, and walked across the hall to his
-study.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XIV. LUCILLE HELPS
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I shan't be long,” said Lucille. “I waited because—”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David colored. The paper contained a schedule of his debts, scribbled down
-that morning. He held out his hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It was not meant to be seen,” he said. “I should have put it in the
-drawer.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lucille ignored the hand.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It was because I saw it I waited,” she said. “This is what has been
-worrying you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Worrying me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But the church is not stingy, Mrs. Hardcome—indeed it is not. I
-have been careless—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lucille laughed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“No,” he said firmly, “I can't take it. I can't permit it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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 <i>not</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If I were in your place,” said Lucille frankly, “I would prefer to get
-out of debt to-day.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But I repeat,” said David, “I cannot take the money.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Not foolish but, perhaps, reluctant to accept personal charity,” said
-Dean.
-</p>
-<p>
-Lucille was not stupid, but she looked into his eyes some time before she
-spoke.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“If I could make the payments quarterly, on my salary days—”
- hesitated David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Certainly!” cooed Lucille, delighted to have won her point. “It can be
-that way.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I should like the transaction to be regular; a note with interest. Seven
-per cent is usual, I believe.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Congratulations?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Alice! She told me! I am so glad!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XV. LANNY
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-Her brother, who had already taken his place at the small table, fidgeted.
-He was hungry.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He's all right!” he said. “Lanny's fine.” Somehow the young Roger's
-approval did not carry far with David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And you aren't even going to congratulate me!” pouted Alice playfully.
-</p>
-<p>
-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:
-</p>
-<p>
-“How is your grandfather, Roger?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I should think so!” said Alice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Oh, you!” said Roger. “Because he has curly hair? A lot you know about
-pitchers.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Well, I'm going to learn,” said Alice.
-</p>
-<p>
-David broke the thread of the conversation. “'Thusia,” he said, “I have
-arranged to clear up the bills we owe.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“David!” his wife exclaimed, her pale cheeks coloring with pleasure. “Did
-the trustees grant the advance on your salary?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-'Thusia looked frightened.
-</p>
-<p>
-“A loan? Are you borrowing money, David?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“How much are you borrowing?” asked 'Thusia, with an intake of breath.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It will be about a thousand dollars; a thousand, I think.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“She could hand you ten thousand and not feel it, from what I hear,” said
-Roger.
-</p>
-<p>
-“'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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-He related his conversation with Lucille, as well as he could recall it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Will you let me speak with your mother awhile, daughter!” David said.
-“Then we will call you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Shall I take the dishes out first!” asked Alice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes.”
- </p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“How did it happen!” David asked finally.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I suppose she met him through Roger,” said David thoughtfully.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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 <i>Eagle</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David rested his head on his hand, and was silent. 'Thusia watched his
-face.
-</p>
-<p>
-“It is unfortunate; most unfortunate,” he said wearily.
-</p>
-<p>
-“David, do you know anything about him!” 'Thusia asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Only hearsay,” he answered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Has he been a bartender!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I have heard that. You know what his father is—little better than a
-blackmailer.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“David, what can we do?” asked 'Thusia.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I don't know,” he answered. “No doubt she would give him up if we asked
-it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What have you said to her, 'Thusia!” he asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I told her I was surprised, and that I must speak to you before I could
-be sure what to say.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'm glad of that,” he said. “I'll ask Alice to come in.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I am afraid Alice has been too hasty,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XVI. AN INTERVIEW
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>N 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>Declarator</i> 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 <i>Declarator</i> 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 <i>Declarator</i>. 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-The <i>Declarator</i> 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 <i>Eagle</i>, 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 <i>Declarator</i>.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>Eagle</i>,
-which was then scarcely larger. Riverbank was once more Democratic. The <i>Declarator</i>
-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 <i>Declarator</i>
-did fairly well.
-</p>
-<p>
-Time passed and the <i>Eagle</i> blossomed from a weekly into a daily. It
-contracted for telegraph news of the outside world. A group of Republicans
-started the <i>Daily Star</i>, staunchly but sanely Republican, and the <i>Declarator</i>
-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 <i>Declarator</i>; 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-To anyone not acquainted with Welsh the <i>Declarator</i> 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 <i>Declarator</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lanny loafed awhile, and then the <i>Eagle</i> planned and put to press
-the first town directory of Riverbank, and during the preparation of the
-book Lanny found a place in the <i>Eagle</i> 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 <i>Eagle</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-The town had a baseball craze just then, and the <i>Eagle</i> boys formed
-a nine. Van Dusen, the owner of the <i>Eagle</i>, 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-But Lanny and Alice are still tapping on David Dean's door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Yes, Alice told me you had asked her,” said David. “She also told me she
-had accepted.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You felt she was not in your class, is that it?” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That's it,” said Lanny with relief. “You know I tended bar once.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“So I have heard,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes,” said Lanny, returning to what seemed uppermost in his mind, “you
-hit it when you said Alice was not in my class.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But I did not say that,” said David. “I only formulated your own thought
-for you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Have you spoken to your parents!” David asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Alice says you don't think of being married for a year,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I think the year of waiting is a wise idea, Mr. Welsh,” he said. “Either
-of you may have a change of mind.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David was aware of a sudden flood of affection for the boy. He put his
-hand on Lanny's shoulder.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Welsh,” he said, “I can say what I must say without offending you, I
-see.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“And might it not be as well,” said David, “that the engagement be not
-widely heralded at present!”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lanny's face fell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I've told mother,” he said. “There is no telling who she has told by
-now.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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:
-</p>
-<p>
-“He was fine, Alice! He's a fine man. All he wants is time to look me up a
-little.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XVII. LUCILLE TO THE RESCUE
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>UCILLE 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“So this is he!” she teased. “Am I to meet him, Alice, or are you too
-jealous to let him know other women!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-She picked up David's pen.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I think six months—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“There!” she exclaimed. “Now, no more worry!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I can't tell you how I appreciate this, Mrs. Hardcome,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lucille put out her hand; there was nothing for David to do but take it.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-The implication was plain; Lanny was not good enough for Alice.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“My short interview with him was quite satisfactory,” he said. “In the
-essentials he seems to meet any reasonable requirements. His manner is
-manly.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lucille interrupted him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She spoke rapidly but without excitement; teasingly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But, Mrs. Hardcome,” cried David, thoroughly frightened. “I cannot let
-you interfere in what is so completely a family matter.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“No!” cried David, but she was at the door. “It is all settled!” she
-triumphed.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Mrs. Hardcome!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“All settled!” she laughed, and went out and closed the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Thusia! And I thought, of all the women in Riverbank, she was the one we
-would want to have keep hands off!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But you see,” said 'Thusia cheerfully, “she is going to keep her hands
-off, in a way. She is going to be my hands.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XVIII. MR. FRAGG WORRIES
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>S 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 <i>Declarator</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-The grocer was working on his books, with a pile of bills and statements
-before him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“That man Welsh is a town nuisance,” he said. “Can't drive him away with a
-club; been pestering me an hour.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“One dollar's worth of sugar won't—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, go away! I tell you no, and I mean no! Get out!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It will be a help, a great help,” said Herwig gratefully. “Thank you!
-When a man is pressed on all sides—”
- </p>
-<p>
-He was distraught with worry, it was easy to see.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You know there is no necessity for this, dominie,” he said. “It was
-understood the money should be deducted from your next salary payment.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Mary Ann is an old woman,” said the banker philosophically.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Quite. Not much coal business in midsummer, I imagine,” said the banker.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Very little. Well—”
- </p>
-<p>
-He looked at the house and then down the street, and hurried away. The
-banker continued his easy, homeward way.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XIX. “BRIEFS”
- </h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN the <i>Declarator</i> 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 <i>Declarator</i>, 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:
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-There was an entire column of it. David's thought, after 'Thusia, was
-thankfulness that he owed not a tradesman in Riverbank.
-</p>
-<p>
-And this was to be Alice's father-in-law!
-</p>
-<p>
-Lanny came to the house that evening; he asked to see David in the study.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Of course you saw the <i>Declarator</i>, 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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“He has had a hard life; you and I do not know how hard. It has embittered
-him; he is not rightly responsible.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-The next week the <i>Declarator</i> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“He is an embittered man; his hand is against the whole world.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It was entirely a business transaction; I stipulated that,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I can imagine what it is,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David thought a moment.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-David agreed. It was, if the bank was willing, the wisest course, or so it
-seemed at the moment.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>Eagle</i>, 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Lucille jingled into his office one morning, rustled into a chair and
-leaned her arms on his desk.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Are you going to do something for me, like a good man?” she began.
-</p>
-<p>
-Van Dusen leaned back in his chair and smiled.
-</p>
-<p>
-“To the half of my kingdom,” he said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Some of them pay more than the <i>Eagle,</i>” he admitted.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And you could get a young man a place there?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I might. The <i>Gazette</i> might do it for me; Bender is an old friend
-of mine.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Then I want you to do it,” said Lucille. “You won't ask why, will you?
-Just do it for me?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“What position does your protégé want?” Van Dusen asked, drawing a scratch
-pad toward him, and poising a pencil.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“With your innermost secrets, on my honor as a bearded old editor,” smiled
-Van Dusen.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Then it is this,” said Lucille and she told about Lanny and Alice.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And have you seen the <i>Declarator?</i>” Lucille demanded. “Is the
-editor of the <i>Declarator</i> good enough to be a dominie's daughter's
-father-in-law?”
- </p>
-<p>
-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 <i>Gazette</i>.
-A few days later Lanny came to the manse, half elated and half displeased.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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 <i>Gazette</i>, 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 <i>Gazette</i> job will pay more than my <i>Eagle</i> job, I
-guess you'll admit I've simply got to grab it.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-To David, knowing nothing of Lucille's having a hand in this, it seemed
-almost providential, this removal of Lanny to another town.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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 <i>Declarator</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Isn't there anything you can do!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XX. LANNY IS AWAY
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>WO 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-When, Sunday afternoon, Lucille found that Ben, as she had guessed, was
-waiting in the lobby she hailed him at once, saying:
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XXI. A FAILURE
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>UGUST 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 <i>Gazette</i> 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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XXII. A TRAGEDY
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Lanny Welsh hasn't been down at all, has he?” she asked.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, once or twice,” David said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Alice says he is buying a shop in Derlingport.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Has bought it. It is one reason he cannot come down.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lucille looked full into David's eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Tell me!” she smiled. “Don't I deserve to know the whole? Has she said
-anything!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“You are so sure?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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?”
- </p>
-<p>
-David did not hazard a guess.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-David smiled now.
-</p>
-<p>
-“She would,” he admitted.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I'll tell you one thing,” he heard Alice say; “I'm not going to spoil my
-beautiful blue eyes sewing in this light.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes, Mrs. Derling is here,” he heard Alice say in reply to a question he
-could not catch. “Will you come in!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“What is it!” she asked, looking up at David. “I think she fainted,” he
-said. “Ben is dead—is drowned.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Ah!” cried Rose in horror and sympathy and put her hand on Mary's heart.
-</p>
-<p>
-“And Roger,” said David. “Roger, too!”
- </p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XXIII. SCANDAL
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>Declarator</i>. 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:
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“A minister of the gospel is, like Caesar's wife, above suspicion. <i>Honi
-soit!</i> Shame upon you for thinking evil of the spotless.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XXIV. RESULTS
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE following day was Sunday. Lucille, who had received and read the <i>Declarator</i>,
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Jimmy's first?” she asked, and David assented.
-</p>
-<p>
-“You have oranges again, I see,” he said. “How he enjoys them!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Doesn't he?” Lucille replied, and then: “I'm glad you do not mean to let
-that <i>Declarator</i> article make any difference. I was afraid it might.
-You are so sensitive, David.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Sensitive! I have never thought that of myself,” he answered.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I'm sure we need not be,” David answered, and she glanced at his face.
-She did not quite like the tone.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“It need not be interrupted,” said David.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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:
-</p>
-<p>
-“Yes. I'm quite sure—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I think I'll have to get out,” David said. “I'll just run in here and—”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I think I'll walk, if you don't mind,” he said. “I need the exercise. No,
-really, I'll walk. Thank you.”
- </p>
-<p>
-Lucille looked after him.
-</p>
-<p>
-“Well!” she exclaimed, and then: “I'm through with you, Mr. David Dean!”
- </p>
-<p>
-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”?
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XXV. LUCILLE LOSES
-</h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>HEN 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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 <i>Declarator</i>. 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-Pay it, however, he did. One afternoon Rose Hinch came into his study and
-closed the door.
-</p>
-<p>
-“David,” she said, “you surely know that I know you owe Lucille something—some
-money?”
- </p>
-<p>
-“I suppose you do, Rose,” he said sadly. “Everyone knows!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“'Thusia told me long ago,” she said. “I asked her about it again to-day.
-I would rather you owed it to me, David.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-'Thusia was neither better nor worse in health than she had been. Bright
-and cheerful, she had learned the great secret of patience.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“I can assure you,” he said, “I do not feel like giving more—if you
-mean me—while Dean remains.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-<br /><br />
-</p>
-<hr />
-<p>
-<a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a>
-</p>
-<div style="height: 4em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-<h2>
-XXVI. “OUR DAVID”
- </h2>
-<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> 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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Oh, I do remember Mack!” I exclaimed. “I must see him if I can before I
-go.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Please,” she said. “It would mean so much to him.”
- </p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“But I thought—” I said.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-She raised her hand for me to take in farewell.
-</p>
-<p>
-“God has been very good to us,” she said.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-The small real estate office, on a second floor, was not as shabby as I
-had expected, nor was Mack Graham as shabby.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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!”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-“Rose, what do you mean, neglecting our David!” Mack asked, almost gayly.
-</p>
-<p>
-Rose smiled sadly.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-He drew a letter from the envelope and passed it to me.
-</p>
-<p>
-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.
-</p>
-<p>
-She read it in silence and when she looked up there were tears in her
-eyes.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-“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—”
- </p>
-<p>
-Rose smiled, as she used to smile in the days when I first knew her.
-</p>
-<p>
-“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.”
- </p>
-<p>
-So that was how it was done.
-</p>
-<div style="height: 6em;">
-<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-</div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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