Part 11

He left her clasping the book in both her hands. She died before he saw her again, but Rose Hinch told him she held the book until she died, and that she had no return of the childish fear. She slept into eternity peacefully content.

From Mrs. Grelling's bedside David walked to Herwig's to give his daily order for groceries. The old grocer entered the small order and hesitated.

“Dominie--” he said.

David knew what was coming, or imagined he did, and felt sick at heart.

“Yes?” he queried.

“I guess you know as well as I do how I hate to say anything about money,” said Herwig, “and you know I wouldn't if I wasn't so hard put to it I don't know which way to turn. I don't want you to worry about it. If it ain't convenient just you forget I ever said anything. Fact is I'm so pressed for money I'm worried to death. The wholesalers I get my goods of--”

“My bill is much larger than it should be,” said David. “I have let it run longer than I have any right to. Just at this moment--”

“I wouldn't even speak of it if I wasn't so put to it to satisfy those I owe,” said Herwig apologetically. “I thought maybe you might be able to help me out somehow, but I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

He was evidently sincere.

“My wholesalers are threatening to close me out,” he said, “and I've just got to try every way I can to raise some cash. If it wasn't for that I wouldn't dun a good customer, let alone you, Mr. Dean.”

“I know it, Brother Herwig,” David said. “You have been most lenient. I am ashamed. I will see what I can do.”

The old grocer followed him to the door, still protesting his regret, and David turned up the street to do the thing he disliked most of anything in the world--ask his trustees for a further advance on his salary.

Already he was overdrawn by several hundred dollars, and he was as deeply ashamed of this as he was of his debts to the merchants of Riverbank. It had always been his pride to be “even with the world”; he felt that no man had a right to live beyond his means--“spending to-morrow to pay for to-day,” he called it--and he had worried much over his accumulating debts. That very morning, before he had left his manse, he had made out a new schedule of his indebtedness, and had been shocked to see how it had grown since his trustees had made the last advance he had asked. With the advance the trustees had allowed him, the total was something over a thousand dollars. He still owed something on last winter's coal; he owed a goodly drug bill; his grocery bill was unpaid since the first of the year; he owed the butcher; the milkman had a bill against him; there were a dozen small accounts for shoes, drygoods, one thing and another.

In Riverbank, at that time, business was nearly all credit business. Bills were rendered twice a year, or even once a year, and, when rendered, often remained unpaid for another six months or so. As accounts went David's accounts were satisfactory to the merchants; he was counted a “good” customer. His indebtedness had grown slowly, beginning with his wife's illness, and he had run in debt beyond his means almost without being aware of it. A semiyearly settling period had come around, and he had found himself without sufficient funds to pay in full, as he usually did. He paid what he could, and let the balance remain, hoping to pay in full at the next settling period. Instead of this he found himself still further behind, and each half year had increased his load of unpaid bills.

David worried. He questioned his right to think the church did not pay him enough, for he received as much as any other minister in Riverbank, and more than most, and his remuneration came promptly on the day it was due, and was never in arrears, as was the case with at least one other. As a matter of fact, his trustees had several times advanced him money, and had advanced him three hundred dollars on the current quarter year.

The dominie felt no resentment against the church or the trustees. More remunerative pulpits had been offered him, and he had refused them because he believed his work lay in Riverbank. Despite all this he could not accuse himself of extravagance. He had raised two children, and they were an expense, but he did not for a moment question his right to have children. He would have liked a half dozen; certainly two--in a town where larger families were the rule--could not be called extravagant. Neither were they extravagant children. Roger had been given as much college training as he seemed able to bear, and had been economical enough; Alice had wished for college but had been compelled to be satisfied with graduation from the Riverbank High School, and was at home taking the place of the maid David felt he could no longer afford.

In the final analysis, David's inability to make his salary meet his needs resolved itself into a matter of his wife's illness. 'Thusia, once the liveliest of girls, was now practically bedridden, although she could be brought downstairs now and then to rest on a divan in the sitting room. She was a permanent invalid now, but a cheerful one. In many ways she was more helpful to David than in their earlier married years; her advice was good, and, with Rose Hinch and Mary Derling, she made the council of three that upheld David's hands in his works of charity and helpfulness. But an invalid is, however helpful her brain may be, an expense, and one not contemplated by trustees when they set a minister's salary. Certainly 'Thusia's illness was not the fault of the church, but it was the cause of David's debts. He could not and did not blame the church for his financial condition, nor could he blame 'Thusia. Alice was doing her full share in the house, taking the maid's place, but Roger--alas, Roger! Roger, the well-beloved son, was a disappointment. He now had a “job,” but after David's high hopes for the lad the place Roger occupied was almost humiliating. David felt that Roger probably hardly earned the four dollars a week he was paid by his grandfather, old Mr. Fragg. He no longer called on his father good-naturedly for funds, but he still lived at home, and probably would as long as the home existed.

So this was our dominie as he walked through the hot Main Street on his way to see Banker Burton, now his most influential trustee. Our David was but slightly round-shouldered; his eyes still clear and gray; hair still curled gold; mouth refined and quick to smile; brow broad, and but little creased. His entire air was one of quick and kindly intelligence; a little weary after twenty-nine years of ministry, a little worn by care, but our Davy still.

I remember him telling me how the passing of the old and staunch friends and (occasional) enemies affected him--men like old Sam Wiggett--and how he felt less like a child of the patriarchs, and more like something bargained and contracted for. This was said without bitterness; he was trying to let me know what an important part in his younger years those old elders and trustees had played. They never quite stopped thinking of David as the boy minister, and to David they remained something stern and authoritative, like the ancient Biblical patriarchs.

They had seemed the God-appointed rulers of the church; somehow the newer trustees and elders, the reason for the choosing of each of whom was known to David, seemed to lack something of the old awesome divine right. They seemed more ordinarily human.

“They let Lucille Hardcome walk on them,” I told David, but of course David would not admit that.

“Lucille is very kind to 'Thusia,” he said.

Mary Derling, having put up with Derling's infidelities long enough, divorced him. Her son Ben was now a young man. Mary herself was well along in the forties, and her abiding love for David Dean glowed in good works year after year, and in the affection of Mary, 'Thusia and Rose Hinch David felt himself blessed above most men. Rose was the best nurse in Riverbank, and those who could secure her services felt that the efficiency of their physician was doubled. She asked an honest wage from those who could afford it, but she gave much of her time to David's sick poor, and many hours to investigating poverty and distress. In this latter work Mary Derling aided, and it was at 'Thusia's bedside the consultations were held; for 'Thusia was no longer able to leave her bed, except on days when she sat in an easy-chair, or could be carried to a downstair couch. In a long, thin book 'Thusia kept a record of needs and deeds. David called it his “laundry list.” In this were entered the souls and bodies that needed “doing over”--souls to be scrubbed and bodies to be starched and creases to be ironed out of both.

'Thusia was a secretary of charities always to be found at home. Charity work soon grows wearisome, but 'Thusia could make the least interesting cases attractive as she told of them. Each page of her “laundry list” was a romance. 'Thusia not only interested herself but she kept interest alive in others.

And Lucille! Lucille tried honestly enough to be useful in the way Rose and Mary were useful. As the years passed she kept up all her numberless activities, glowing as a social queen, pushing forward as a political factor, driving the church trustees, ordering the music and cowing the choir--she was in everything and leading everything, and yet she was discontented. More and more, each year, she came to believe that David Dean was the man of all men whose good opinion she desired, and it annoyed her to think that he valued the quiet services of Mary Derling and Rose Hinch more than anything Lucille had done or, perhaps, could do. She was like a child in her desire for words of commendation from David.

As David Dean mounted the three steps that led up to the bank where B. C. Burton spent his time as president, Lucille was awaiting him in his study in the little white manse on the hill.

XIII. A SURPRISE

B. C. BURTON, the president of the Riverside National Bank, was a widower, and led an existence that can be described as calmly and good-naturedly detached. He was a younger son of a father long since dead, who had established the Burton, Corley & Co. bank, which had prospered, and finally taken a national banking charter. Corley had furnished the capital for the original bank, and the Burton family had run the business. B. C.--he was usually called by his initials--had married Corley's only daughter, and had thus acquired the Corley money. After his wife's death his wealth was estimated as a hundred thousand dollars; the truth was that old Corley had invested badly, and left his daughter no more than twenty-five thousand. At the time of his marriage B. C. owned nothing but his share of the bank stock, worth about twenty thousand.

In spite of his reputation as a banker, B. C. was a poor business man where his own affairs were concerned. During his wife's life his own bank stock increased in value to about twenty-five thousand dollars, but he managed to lose all of the twenty-five thousand his wife had brought him, and when she died he had nothing but his house and his bank stock. In the four or five years since his wife's death he had continued his misfortunes, and had pledged fifteen thousand dollars' worth of his bank stock to old Peter Grimsby, one of the bank's directors. Thus, while Riverbank counted B. C. Burton a wealthy man, the bank president was worth a scant ten thousand dollars, plus a house worth five or six thousand. The bank stock brought him six per cent, and his salary was two thousand; he had an income of about twenty-six hundred dollars which the town imagined to be ten or fifteen thousand.

Being a childless widower he could live well enough on his income in Riverbank, but, had it not been for his placidity of temper, he would have been a discontented and disappointed man. Even so his first half hour after awaking in the morning was a bad half hour. He opened his eyes feeling depressed and weary, with his life an empty hull. For half an hour he felt miserable and hopeless; but he had a sound body, and a cup of coffee and solid breakfast set him up for the day; he became a good-natured machine for the transaction of routine banking business.

Some twist of humor or bit of carelessness had marked the choice of the names of the two Burton boys. The elder had been named Andrew D., which in itself was nothing odd; neither was there anything odd that the younger should have been given the name of the father's partner, Benjamin Corley; but the town was quick to adopt the initials--A. D. and B. C.--and to see the humor in them, and the two men were ever after known by them. When they were boys they were nicknamed Anna (for Anno Domini) and Beef (for Before Christ), and the names were not ill-chosen. The elder boy was as nervous as a girl, and Ben was as stolid as an ox. They never got along well together and, soon after B. C. entered the bank, A. D.--who had been cashier--left it and went into retail trade.

A. D. was the type of man that seems smeared all over with whatever he undertakes. Had he been a baker he would have been covered with flour and dough from head to foot--dough would have been in his hair. Had B. C. been a baker he would have emerged from his day's work without a fleck of flour upon him. A. D. blundered into things, and became saturated with them; B. C.'s affairs were like the skin of a ripe tangerine--they clothed him but were hardly an integral part of him. Life's rind fitted him loosely.

When David Dean entered the bank, B. C. was closeted with a borrower, and the dominie was obliged to wait a few minutes. He stood at the window, his hands clasped behind him, gazing into the street, and trying to arrange the words in which he would ask the banker-trustee for the advance he desired. The door to the banker's private office opened, the customer came out, and the door closed again. A minute later the cashier told David he might enter.

B. C. was sitting at his desk, coatless but immaculate. He turned and smiled.

“Good morning, Mr. Dean,” he said. “Another good com day. You and I don't get much pleasure out of this hot weather, I am afraid, but it is money in the farmers' pockets.”

He did nothing to make David's way easy. His very smiling good nature made it more difficult. David plunged headlong into his business.

“Mr. Burton, could you--do you think the trustees would--grant me a further advance on my salary!”

The banker showed no surprise, no resentment. “I dislike to ask it,” David continued. “I feel that the trustees have already done all that they should. It is my place to keep within my income--that I know--but I seem to have fallen behind in the last few years. I have had to run into debt to some extent. There is one debt that should be paid; it should be paid immediately; otherwise--”

“Don't stand,” said B. C., touching a vacant chair with his finger. “Of course you know I am only one of the trustees, Mr. Dean. I should not pretend to give you an answer without consulting the others, but I suppose I was made a trustee because I know something of business. They seem to have left the finances of the church rather completely in my hands; I think I have brought order out of chaos. Here is the balance sheet, brought down to the first of the month.” David took the paper and stared at it, but the figures meant nothing to him. He felt already that Burton meant to refuse his request “Let me see it,” B. C. said, and his very method of handing the statement to David and then taking it again for examination was characteristic. “Why, we are in better shape than I thought! This is very good indeed! We are really quite ahead of ourselves; you see here we have paid five hundred dollars on the mortgage a full six months before the time the payment was due. And here is payment made for roofing the church, and paid promptly. Usually we keep our bills waiting. Then here is the advance made you. This is a very good statement, Mr. Dean. And now let me see; cash on hand! Well, that item is low; very low! Twenty-eight dollars and forty cents. You understand that, do you! That is the cash we have available for all purposes.”

He had not refused David; he had shown him that his request could not be granted.

“Of course, then,” said David, “the trustees have nothing to advance, even were they so inclined. I thank you quite as much.”

“Now, don't hurry,” said B. C. “You don't come in here often, and when you do I ought to be able to spare you a few minutes. Sit down. At our last meeting the trustees were speaking of your salary. We think you should receive more than you are getting; if the church could afford it we would arrange it at once, but you know how closely we have to figure to make ends meet.”

“I have not complained,” said David.

“Indeed not! But we think of these things; we don't forget you, you see. I dare say we know almost as much about your affairs as you know. I believe I can tell you the name of the creditor you spoke of. It's old Herwig, isn't it!”

“Yes.”

“I thought so,” said B. C. “Of course I knew you traded there, and it is a good thing to patronize our own church members, but it is a pity we haven't a live grocer in the church. I had to leave Herwig; my housekeeper couldn't get what she wanted there. Now, just let me tell you something, and put your mind at rest: if you paid Herwig whatever you owe him you might as well take the money down to the river and throw it in! Herwig is busted right now, and he knows it. If he collected every cent due him he would be just as insolvent. He is dead of dry rot; it is all over but the funeral. The only reason his creditors haven't closed him up is that it is not worth their while; I don't suppose they'll get a cent on the dollar. So don't worry about him--he's hopeless.”

“But what I owe him--”

“Wouldn't be a drop in the bucket!” said B. C. “Don't worry about it. Don't think about it. And now, about a possible increase in your salary; I think we may be able to manage that before long. Lucille Hardcome seems to be taking a great interest in your outside church work.”

“She seems eager to give all the help she can.”

“That's good! She is a wealthy woman, Mr. Dean; wealthier than you imagine, I believe. Do what you reasonably can to keep up her interest. She has done very little for the church yet in a money way. She can easily afford to do as much as Mary Derling is doing. Of course we understand she has had great expense in all these things she is doing; that house done over and all; she has probably used more than her income, but she can't get much more into the house without building an addition. She is thoroughly Riverbank now, and we have let her take a prominent part in the church and the Sunday school; she owes it to us to give liberally. I think she could give a thousand dollars a year, if she chose, and not feel it. The hundred she gives now is nothing; suppose we say five hundred dollars. If we can get her to give five hundred we can safely add two hundred and fifty of it to your salary. And you deserve it, and ought to have it. If we can add that two hundred and fifty dollars to your salary during my trusteeship I shall be delighted. We all feel that way--all the trustees.”

“That is more than I ever dared hope,” said David. “It is kind of you to think of it.”

“I wish we could make it a thousand,” said B. C. sincerely. “Well, I don't want to keep you all day in this hot office. Just humor Lucille Hardcome a little; she's high-handed but I think she means all right.”

David went out. The sun was hotter than ever, but for a block or two he did not notice it. Two hundred and fifty dollars increase! It would mean that in a few years he could be even with the world again! Then, as he toiled up the hot hill, his immediate needs returned to his mind, and he thought of Herwig. Whether the old grocer must inevitably fail in business or not the debt David owed him was an honestly contracted debt, and the old man had a right to expect payment; all David's creditors had a right to expect payment. His horror of debt returned in full force. There was not a place where he could look for a dollar; he felt bound and constrained, guilty, shamed.

Before the manse Lucille Hardcome's low-hung carriage stood. He entered the house.

“David!” called 'Thusia from the sitting room, and he hung his hat on the rack and went in to her.

“Lucille is waiting in the study,” said 'Thusia. “She has been waiting an hour; Alice is with her.”

“'Thusia, what has happened!” he cried, for his wife's face showed she had received a blow.

“Oh, David! David!” she exclaimed. “It is Alice! She is engaged!”

“Not Alice! Not our Alice!” cried David. “But--”

'Thusia burst into tears. She reached for his hand, and clung to it.

“Oh, David! To Lanny Welsh--do you know anything about him!” she wept. “I don't know anything about him at all, except he was a bartender, and Roger knows him.”

“Our Alice! Lanny Welsh!” said David, “But nothing of the sort can be allowed, 'Thusia. It cannot be!”

“Oh, I hoped you would say that!” said 'Thusia. “But don't wait now. Go to Lucille at once!”

So David bent and kissed his wife, and walked across the hall to his study.

XIV. LUCILLE HELPS

THE shock of his wife's news regarding Alice had the effect of a slap with a cold towel, and momentarily surprised David Dean out of the weary depression into which the heat of the day, his inability to secure an advance on his salary and the delay in his midday meal had dragged him. A blow of a whip could not have aroused him more. Like many men who live an active mental life, he was accustomed to digging spurs into his jaded brain when and where necessity arose, forcing himself to attack unexpected problems with a vigor that, a moment before, seemed impossible. Neither he nor 'Thusia had had the slightest intimation that Alice was in love, or in any way in danger of engaging herself to Lanny Welsh. The event, as David saw it, would be most unfortunate. He had heard Roger mention the young fellow's name now and then, and perhaps Alice had discussed Lanny's ball playing with Roger in the presence of her parents; David could not remember. He entered his study briskly. The matters in hand were simple enough; he would get through with Lucille Hardcome as quickly as possible, remembering Burton's suggestion that some attention should be paid her. This would release Alice for the moment, and she could get the dinner on the table, for the dominie was thoroughly hungry. After dinner he would have a talk with Alice, and he had no doubt she would explain her engagement, and that he would find it less serious than 'Thusia imagined.

When David entered the study Alice, who had been curled up in his easy-chair, unwound herself and prepared for flight. She was in a happy mood, and kissed Lucille and then her father.

“No doubt you know that Dominie Dean is about starved, Alice,” her father said. “I'll be ready for dinner when dinner is ready for me. If Mrs. Hardcome and I are not through when you are ready for me perhaps she will take a bite with us.”

“I shan't be long,” said Lucille. “I waited because--”

Alice slipped from the room and closed the door and Lucille, as if Alice's going had rendered unnecessary the giving of a reason, left her sentence unfinished. She was sitting in the dominie's desk chair with one braceleted arm resting on the desk, her hand on a sheet of sermon paper that lay there. She picked it up now.

“I couldn't help seeing this, Mr. Dean,” she said. “'Thusia was asleep when I came, and Alice brought me in here and left me when she went about her dinner-getting. I saw it without intending to.”

David colored. The paper contained a schedule of his debts, scribbled down that morning. He held out his hand.

“It was not meant to be seen,” he said. “I should have put it in the drawer.”

Lucille ignored the hand.