Dominie Dean: A Novel

XVII. LUCILLE TO THE RESCUE

LUCILLE HARDCOME, having observed the kiss, instantly pulled the bell, and Lanny and Alice started apart guiltily, and Alice opened the door. Seeing Lucille was a relief, for the visitor might have been anyone, and Lucille further relieved her by pinching her cheek and shaking a playful finger at her, accompanied by a jingling of many bracelets.

“So this is he!” she teased. “Am I to meet him, Alice, or are you too jealous to let him know other women!”

Lanny stepped forward. He shook hands warmly, making Lucille’s bracelets jingle like miniature cymbals, and Lucille exchanged a few words, half grave and half gay, taking his measure meanwhile – or thinking she was taking it, for she was a poor judge of individual character, however well she understood it in the gross. She liked the impressive. Henry Ward Beecher’s hair meant more to her than Henry Ward Beecher’s mind; she could never have understood a blithe statesman or one not in a frock coat. In time, not being an utter fool, she was apt to see through hollow impressiveness or to see real worth under unimpressive exteriors, but this came slowly. Her first impressions were usually wrong, as when she had misjudged Dominie Dean. In Lanny, standing in the illy lighted little hall, she saw nothing of the inner Lanny. She thought, “A male trifle; hardly worth serious consideration; a girl’s first love material,” and felt she had him properly scheduled.

“Your father is in the study?” she asked, and tapped on the study door lightly, not to injure the knuckles of her kid gloves. If David had not heard the light tap – which he did, knowing Lucille was in the hall – he would have heard her bracelets. He opened the door.

We are apt to give men and women too much credit for pursuing a definite course. The hard heads that, at the beginning of a career, lay clean-cut plans of ambition are in an infinitesimal minority. With most ambition is not much more than a feeling of uneasiness, an oyster’s mild irritation at the grain of sand that intrudes into the shell. Just as some forms of indigestion cause an inward uneasiness that urges the sufferer to eat and eat, regardless of what is eaten, and only seeking relief from what seems a pang of hunger – but is actually a pathologic condition – so the victim of ambition feeds on whatever comes to hand. Lucille was such a victim.

When David opened the door of his study Lucille sailed in like a full-rigged ship, and seated herself at his desk. She opened her purse, and disgorged the roll of bank notes, which opened itself like something alive. She pushed the money to the edge of the desk.

“You’ll find that right,” she said, and dipped into her purse again. “This is the note, if you insist. I’ve left the time blank – shall I make it a year?”

She picked up David’s pen.

“I think six months – ”

“It is to be just as you wish it,” she said, and inserted the time, and slid the note toward David, handing him the pen. He was standing, and he bent over the desk and signed his name. Lucille blotted it briskly, and put the note back in her purse. The money still remained where she had pushed it. She put it into David’s hand.

“There!” she exclaimed. “Now, no more worry!”

“I can’t tell you how I appreciate this, Mrs. Hardcome,” said David.

“Please!” she begged, raising a hand. She snapped her purse and dropped it into her lap. “Alice told me of her engagement, the dear girl!” she said. “I met the happy man in the hallway just now.”

“Alice told you?” said David, surprised. “Oh! this morning, of course. She said nothing just now? We think it best not to make the engagement public yet; they will not be married for a year, at least – they agree to that – and I thought she might have told you.”

Lucille put out her hand; there was nothing for David to do but take it.

“I’m so glad!” she cried effusively. “Glad the engagement is not to be announced, I mean; glad the wedding is not to be for a year. I wonder if you feel as I do, that so many marriages are too hastily made? Alice is such a dear girl, Mr. Dean; no man could be too good for her.”

The implication was plain; Lanny was not good enough for Alice.

“It isn’t as if dear ‘Thusia could be up and about,” said Lucille, still holding David’s hand. “We know ‘Thusia would do all a mother should do, but she is so handicapped. Young girls are so impulsive; they need just a bit of guiding here and a word there. We should let them think they are making a free choice, but should help them in making it. Mr. Dean, frankly, don’t you think Alice is making a mistake!”

She dropped the dominie’s hand, and settled herself in his desk chair again. It was impossible to shake off the confidential air she had imparted to the interview. David was not sure that Alice was not making a mistake. He hesitated, seeking some word that would deny that ‘Thusia had not done all she should have done for Alice. What he wanted to tell Lucille Hardcome was that he and ‘Thusia were quite able to manage Alice’s affairs, but it was necessary to tell Lucille more than politely, and he felt at heart that Lucille was perhaps right – someone should have guided Alice’s choice a little.

“I know you think so,” Lucille said without waiting for his reply. “I know just how you feel. I feel the same – quite as if Alice was my own daughter; we all feel as if Alice was that; the daughter of the church. Not but what this young man may be thoroughly praiseworthy, Mr. Dean, but is he the son-in-law our dominie should have! Oh, no! No!”

In anything he said in Lanny’s favor, David must be on the defensive. He did not know enough of the young man yet to speak with unbounded enthusiasm or calm certainty.

“My short interview with him was quite satisfactory,” he said. “In the essentials he seems to meet any reasonable requirements. His manner is manly.”

Lucille interrupted him.

“Oh, all that, of course! Alice is not a baby, she would not choose anyone utterly impossible, I dare say.” Then, leaning toward David, she said: “Mr. Dean, you know and I know that Alice ought not marry this Lanny, or whatever his name is. This Welsh – do you know what his father is? He’s an awful creature. You know Alice can’t be permitted to marry into such a family. Now, please,” she urged, “just leave it all to me. Men can’t manage such things, and poor dear ‘Thusia – ”

“But, my dear Mrs. Hardcome,” David began. “Oh, my dear Mrs. Nonsense!” she cried, rising and mocking him. “I think it is about time someone took you in hand, David Dean; I think it is just about time! ‘Thusia is a dear soul, and Mary and Rose are dear souls too, but the whole lot of you haven’t enough worldly gumption to say boo to a goose. You’d sit here and let Alice marry a bartender (well, then, an ex-bartender!) and you wouldn’t see it would be the ruin of the whole lot of us, and of him, too, or if you did see it you wouldn’t raise a hand.”

She spoke rapidly but without excitement; teasingly.

“Mr. Dean,” she continued in a more serious tone, “I am worldly and I know the world. Alice must not marry this young fellow; she must not! And she is not going to!”

“But, Mrs. Hardcome,” cried David, thoroughly frightened. “I cannot let you interfere in what is so completely a family matter.”

“David Dean, will you please stop Mrs. Hard-coming me? My name is Lucille quite as much as Mrs. Derling’s is Mary, and you are not going to frighten me away by calling me Mrs. Hardcome. Now,” she said, “will you leave Alice to me?”

“I will not!” said David; “I must beg you not to interfere in any way. I understand Alice; ‘Thusia understands her. We are not, perhaps,” he said with a smile, “as lacking in worldly wisdom as you imagine.”

Lucille shook her head and laughed. “Incorrigible!” she exclaimed. “You’ll never understand how much you need someone like me. A business manager? Shall I call it that? Then it is all settled – I am to see that Alice does not make this mistake.”

“No!” cried David, but she was at the door. “It is all settled!” she triumphed.

“Mrs. Hardcome!”

“All settled!” she laughed, and went out and closed the door.

David put his hand on the knob and hesitated. After all was said, Lucille was right, no doubt. The marriage would be more than annoying; he himself was too prone to consider character as canceling worldly objections. There was one thing about Lucille Hardcome – she usually had her way. She was a “manager.”

Lucille had gone from David to ‘Thusia. David waited until she had left the house. He found ‘Thusia more complacent than he had expected to find her. Lucille’s visits sometimes annoyed her.

“I feel so relieved, David,” she said. “Lucille has been here and spoken about Alice. There was so little I could do, tied down as I am, and Ruth could hardly help, and of course Mary would hesitate, feeling as she does about Alice and Ben. Lucille is just the person we needed.”

“‘Thusia! And I thought, of all the women in Riverbank, she was the one we would want to have keep hands off!”

“But you see,” said ‘Thusia cheerfully, “she is going to keep her hands off, in a way. She is going to be my hands.”

David had his own idea of Lucille’s being anyone’s hands but her own, but he said nothing then. He had the money in his pocket with which to pay his debts, and he was eager to settle with Herwig. He kissed ‘Thusia and went out.

XVIII. MR. FRAGG WORRIES

AS David entered Herwig’s store P. K. Welsh was leaving it. He was the same greasy, unkempt figure as usual, his pockets stuffed full of copies of the Declarator and exchanges, his bent shoulders carrying his head low, and his bushy brows drawn into a frown. He pushed by the dominie as if not seeing him. David turned, but the old man was already in the street, crossing it, and David went into the store. He had had a momentary impulse to stop P. K., and speak of the engagement, but he decided that telling his father was Lanny’s affair. He went back to where Herwig sat at his desk.

The grocer was working on his books, with a pile of bills and statements before him.

“That man Welsh is a town nuisance,” he said. “Can’t drive him away with a club; been pestering me an hour.”

He did not say how he had finally driven Welsh away. P. K. had wanted a dollar’s worth of sugar, and had set his mind on getting it from Herwig in exchange for advertising. Herwig had told him he couldn’t afford to give a dollar’s worth of sugar for advertising or anything else. He couldn’t afford to give a cent’s worth. He showed P. K. the bills he owed, and the bills owed to him. It happened that David’s statement was the top of the pile.

“He ought to pay you,” P. K. had snarled. “Man getting a salary like his; big church, rich congregation. What right has he to owe money!”

“Well, he owes me,” said Herwig. “Everybody owes me. Credit is the curse of this town. I can’t get money in, and I can’t pay my bills, and if I don’t I’m going to be shut up.”

“One dollar’s worth of sugar won’t – ”

“Oh, go away! I tell you no, and I mean no! Get out!”

P. K. had gone. Going he had seen the dominie plainly enough, and bitter hatred had been in his glance. Lanny had not told him of the engagement, but his wife had; and that alone was enough to anger the embittered, old man. On the street his anger grew. Why had the dominie not stopped him and said something about the engagement? Too stuck-up! Stuck-up, and with an unpaid grocer’s bill! He went mumbling down the street, coaxing his ill humor.

“I’m glad to say I’ve been able to raise some money,” David said, “and we will just settle that bill without further delay. And right glad I am to be able to do so, Mr. Herwig. The amount is?”

“It will be a help, a great help,” said Herwig gratefully. “Thank you! When a man is pressed on all sides – ”

He was distraught with worry, it was easy to see.

“That Welsh pesters the life out of me. I can’t afford to advertise in his vile sheet; it’s blackmail; money wasted – thrown away. He ought to be run out of town – tarred and feathered. Brought up a good-for-nothing, bartending son – ”

“Let me see – yes, this is the right change,” said David hastily. “You might send me – or I think I’ll let Mrs. Dean give her order to the boy to-morrow, as usual.”

He hurried from the store. He did not know why hearing Herwig talk about Lanny annoyed him so. When he was on the street he felt ashamed of having fled without saying a word in defense of Lanny. He turned to go back and did not go. Instead he went the rounds of his creditors, paying bills.

It was after banking hours, but the door of the bank stood open and he went in. He found the banker in his office, for Burton never hurried home, and David went straight to the matter in hand. Lucille’s loan had been enough to cover the advance made by the trustees, and David felt he should repay the church the advance. It had been included in the schedule of his debts Lucille had seen. He placed the bank notes on the banker’s desk, and explained what they were for. B. G. took them and counted them.

“You know there is no necessity for this, dominie,” he said. “It was understood the money should be deducted from your next salary payment.”

“But, having it, I prefer to pay it now,” said David. “I was able to raise what I needed. A – friend came to my assistance.”

Burton stacked the banknotes, and pushed them back on his desk. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he hoped David had said something to Lucille about an increased subscription, but he thought better of it. That Lucille had loaned David the money he was morally certain, for the bank notes were Riverbank National notes, crisply new and with Burton’s signature hardly dry. He had handed them through the window to Lucille himself, remarking to her that she would like some brand-new money, perhaps. He remembered the amount of the check she had presented; no doubt it was the amount of the loan she had made David.

When the dominie left Burton sat in thought. Lucille had not made David a present of the money, he decided, for he could not imagine David accepting any such gift, and it was fairly sure that David would not accept the money as a loan unless he felt sure of repaying it. That meant that he must be sure of an increase in salary, and that in turn meant that Lucille must have promised an increased subscription, doubtless asking that her intention be kept secret for the present. All this was not difficult to imagine, but B. C. was pleased that he was able to follow the clew so well. He decided that it would be safest to let David handle the matter, with an occasional hint to David to keep him working for the subscription. He derided this placidly and with the pleasant feeling that the dominie’s refund, added to the cash already on hand, made the church’s bank balance more respectable. He liked a good bank balance; the bank paid the church four per cent on its balances and he was always pleased when the item “bank interest” in his report amounted to a decent figure. He walked home feeling well satisfied. As he passed the old Fragg homestead he nodded to David’s father-in-law who was coming through the gateway. The old man crossed the street.

“My housekeeper is sick,” he said, as a man who feels the necessity of telling his banker why he is neglecting his business during business hours. “She’s pretty bad this time, I’m afraid. I’ve got Rose Hinch, and the doctor has been here. No hope, I’m afraid.”

“Mary Ann is an old woman,” said the banker philosophically.

“Yes, yes!” agreed Fragg nervously. What he did not say was that if Mary Ann died he would have to find another housekeeper, and that – in Riverbank – would be a hard task. Mary Ann had been with him while his wife was alive, had been with him when ‘Thusia was born. She knew his ways, and a new housekeeper would not. “Yes, we must all die!” he said. “I got your notice that my note comes due next week. I suppose it will be all right to renew it again?”

“Quite. Not much coal business in midsummer, I imagine,” said the banker.

“Very little. Well – ”

He looked at the house and then down the street, and hurried away. The banker continued his easy, homeward way.

The note worried Fragg more than it worried the banker, because Fragg knew more about his affairs. He had mortgaged the homestead to go into the coal business, because the coal business eats up capital, but this did not worry either the banker or Fragg. What worried Fragg was his last winter’s business. Ever since he had gone into the coal business the bank had loaned him, each year, more or less money to stock up his coal yard against the winter trade. Last winter he had lost money; bad accounts had eaten into his reserve, had devoured it and more; he had been obliged to use a good part of the money the bank loaned him in paying for coal already sold and consumed. He owed the bank; he owed the mines; he owed the holder of the mortgage. He wondered how he could get enough coal to supply his trade during the coming winter. When he reached his office on the levee, he saw the little card “Back in five minutes” stuck in the door, just as he had left it when called to Mary Ann’s bedside. Roger was practicing ball; he waved his hand to his grandfather and went on playing, and the old man entered the office, to pore over his books again, seeking some way out of his difficulties. Through the window he glanced at Roger; he was very fond of the boy.