SETH HARDCOME, while not an elder, was one of the most prominent men in
the church, and if anything could be said against him it was that he
was almost too upright. Men are intended, no doubt, to be more or less
miserable sinners, but Seth Hardcome was, to outward view, absolutely
irreproachable. He was in the shoe business on the main street. It is a
nice, clean business and does not call for much sweat of the brow (a boy
can be hired to open the cases) or necessitate rough clothes, and Seth
Hardcome was always clean, neat and suave. He was a gentleman, polite
and courteous. He sold the best shoe he could give for the money.
Among other boots, shoes and slippers he sold gaiters--then quite the
fashion--with prunella uppers and elastic gores at the sides. Most of
the ladies wore them.
'Thusia needed new gaiters. David's stipend was so small in those
days--it was never large--that, with the new baby, he had hard figuring
to avoid running into debt and 'Thusia did her share in the matter of
economy. She had worn her old gaiters until they were hardly fit to
wear. The elastic had rotted and hung in warped folds; the gaiters had
been soled and resoled and the soles were again in holes; finally one of
the gaiters broke through at the side of the foot. 'Thusia could not go
out of the house in such footwear and she asked David to stop at
Hardcome's for a new pair. She wrote the size on a slip of paper.
“The black prunella gaiters, David; the same that I always get. Mr.
Hardcome will know,” she said.
David bought the gaiters. He handed Mr. Hardcome the slip of paper, and
Mr. Hardcome himself went to the shelves and selected the gaiters. He
wrapped them with his own hands. This was a Monday, and not until the
next Sunday did 'Thusia have occasion to wear the gaiters. It was a day
following a rain, and the streets were awash with yellow mud. 'Thusia
came home limping, her poor little toes crimped in the ends of the
gaiters.
“My poor, poor feet!” she cried. “David, I nearly died; I'm sure you
never preached so long in your life. Oh, I'll be glad to get these off!”
She pulled off one of the offending gaiters and looked at the sole. The
size stamped on the sole was a size smaller than 'Thusia wore. The
next day David returned the gaiters to Mr. Hardcome. Mr. Hardcome's
professional smile fled as David explained. He shook his head
sorrowfully as he opened the parcel and looked at the shoes. There
was yellow clay on the heels and a spattering of yellow clay on the
prunella.
“Too bad!” said Mr. Hardcome, still shaking his head. “She's worn them.”
“Yes; to church, yesterday,” David said. “I'm sorry,” said Mr. Hardcome,
and he really was sorry, “I can't take them back. My one invariable
rule; boots or shoes I sometimes exchange, but gaiters never! After they
have been worn I cannot exchange gaiters.”
“But in this case,” said David, “when they were the wrong size? You
remember my wife herself wrote the size on a slip. It doesn't seem, when
it was not her error--”
“That, of course,” said Mr. Hardcome with a sad smile, “we cannot know.
I am not likely to have made a mistake. Mrs. Dean should have tried the
shoes before she wore them.”
David did not argue. He had the average man's reluctance to exchange
goods, particularly when soiled, and he bought and paid for another
pair, and nothing more might have come of it had 'Thusia not happened to
know that old Mrs. Brown wore gaiters a size smaller than herself.
'Thusia did not give the gaiters to Mrs. Brown without first having
tried to get Mr. Hardcome to take them back. She went herself. David's
money must not be wasted if she could prevent it, and it is a fact that
when she left Mr. Hardcome's store she left in something of a huff. She
cared nothing whatever for Mr. Hardcome's rules, but she was angry to
think he should suggest that she had written the wrong size on the slip
of paper. Mr. Hardcome was cold and polite; he bowed her out of the
store as politely as he would have bowed out Mrs. Derling or any other
lady customer, but he was firm. It was natural enough that 'Thusia
should tell the story to old Mrs. Brown when she gave her the gaiters.
From Mrs. Brown the story of the black prunella gaiters circulated from
one lady to another, changing form like a putty ball batted from hand
to hand, until it reached Mrs. Hardcome. One, or it may have been
two, Sundays later David, coming down from his pulpit, found Mr.
Hardcome--white-faced and nervous--waiting for him. Suspecting nothing
David held out his hand. Mr. Hardcome ignored it.
“If you have one minute, Mr. Dean,” he said in the hard voice of a man
who has been put up to something by his wife, “I would like to have a
word with you.”
“Why, certainly,” said David.
“It has come to my ears,” said Mr. Hardcome, “that your wife is
circulating a report that I am untruthful.”
David almost gasped with astonishment. He could not imagine 'Thusia
doing any such thing.
“I do not hold you in any way responsible for what your wife may say
or do, Mr. Dean,” said Mr. Hardcome in the same hard voice. “I do not
believe for one moment that you have sanctioned any such slanderous
remarks. I have the utmost respect and affection for you, but I
tell you, Mr. Dean”--his voice shook with the anger he tried to
control--“that woman--your wife--must apologize! I will not have such
reports circulated about me! That is all. I merely expect you to do your
duty. If your wife will apologize I will do my duty as a Christian and
say no more about it.”
David, standing in amazement, chanced to look past Mr. Hardcome, and he
saw many of his congregation watching him. He had not the slightest idea
of what Mr. Hardcome was speaking, but he felt, with the quick intuition
of a sensitive man, that these others knew and were keen to catch his
attitude as he answered. He put his hand on Mr. Hardcome's arm.
“This must be some mistake, Hardcome,” he said. “I have not a doubt it
can all be satisfactorily explained. My people are waiting for me now.
Can you come to the house to-night? After the sermon! That's good!”
He let his hand slide down Mr. Hardcome's sleeve and stepped forward,
extending his hand for the shaking of hands that always awaited him
after the service. Before he reached the door his brow was troubled.
Not a few seemed to yield their hands reluctantly; some had manifestly
hurried away to avoid him. 'Thusia, always the center of a smiling
group, stood almost alone in the end of her pew. He saw Mrs. Hardcome
sweep past 'Thusia without so much as a glance of recognition.
On the way home he spoke to 'Thusia. She knew at once that the trouble
must be something about the black prunella gaiters.
“But, David,” she said, looking full into his eyes, “he is quite wrong
if he says I said anything about untruthfulness. I have never said
anything like that. I have never said anything about him or the gaiters
except to old Mrs. Brown. I did tell her I was quite sure I had written
the correct size on the slip of paper I gave you. But I never, never
said Mr. Hardcome was untruthful!”
“Then it will be very easily settled,” said David. “We will tell him
that when he comes to-night.”
Mr. Hardcome did not go to David's alone. When David opened the door it
was quite a delegation he faced. Mrs. Hardcome was with her husband, and
old Sam Wiggett, Ned Long and James Cruser filed into the little parlor
behind them. David met them cheerfully. He placed chairs and stood with
his back to the door, his hands clasped behind him. 'Thusia sat at one
side of the room. David smiled.
“I have spoken to my wife,” he said, “and--”
“If you will pardon me for one minute, Mr. Dean,” said Mrs. Hardcome,
interrupting him. “I do not wish to have any false impressions. I do not
want my husband blamed, if there is any blame. I want it understood that
I insisted that he ask for this apology. I am not the woman to have my
husband called a--called untruthful without doing something about it. It
is not for me to say that plenty of us thought you made a mistake when
you chose a wife, that is neither here nor there. A man marries as he
pleases. We don't ask anything unreasonable. If Mrs. Dean will
apologize--”
Little 'Thusia, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, looked up at David
with wistful eagerness. David, stern enough now, shook his head.
“I have spoken to my wife,” he said, “and I have her assurance that
she has never said anything whatever in the least reflecting on Mr.
Hardcome's veracity. Neither she nor I can say more.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Hardcome in a shocked tone, glancing at her husband
as if to say: “So she is lying about this too!” Mr. Hardcome arose and
took up his hat.
“We came in a most forgiving spirit, Brother Dean, feeling sure, from
what you told me, that an apology would be given without quibble. We
wished to avoid all anger and quarreling. If we begin a dispute as to
what Mrs. Dean said or did not say we cannot tell what unpleasantness
may result. I am taking this stand not to protect myself, but to protect
others in our church who may be similarly attacked. We wish Mrs. Dean to
apologize.”
“Mrs. Dean cannot apologize for what she has not done.”
There was no mistaking David's tone. If he was angry he hid his anger;
he was stating an unchangeable fact.
When he and 'Thusia were alone again she cried in his arms; she told him
it would have been better if he had let her apologize--that she did not
care, she would rather apologize a thousand times than make trouble
for him--but David was firm. Old Sam Wiggett, on the way home, told the
Hardcomes they had been fools; that they had been offered all they had
a right to ask. It was not, however, his quarrel. Mrs. Hardcome was the
offended party, and Mrs. Hardcome would hear of nothing less than an
apology.
In a week or less the church was plunged into all the mean pettiness of
a church quarrel. The black prunella gaiters and the slip of paper with
the shoe size were, while not forgotten, almost lost in the slimy mass
of tattle and chatter. James Cruser in a day changed from a partisan of
the Hardcomes to a bitter enemy, because Mrs. MacDorty told Mrs. Cruser
that Mrs. Hardcome had said Mr. Cruser was trying to befriend both sides
and was double-faced. Ned Long, looming as the leader of the Hardcome
faction, told of a peculiar mortgage old James P. Wardop had--he
said--extorted from Widow Wilmot, and Mr. Wardop became the staunchest
supporter of David, although he had always said David was the worst
preacher a man ever sat under. It was--“and she's a nice one to stick up
for the Deans when everybody knows”--and--“but what else can you expect
from a man like him, who was mean enough to”--and so on.
'Thusia wept a great many tears when she was not with David. The quarrel
was like a wasp-like a nest of wasps. From whatever quarter a stinging
bit of maliciousness set out, and whoever it stung in its circling
course, it invariably ended at 'Thusia's door. In a short time the
affair had become a bitter factional quarrel. There were those who
supported Mr. Hardcome and those who supported Mr. Wardop, but the
fight became a battle to drive 'Thusia out of Riverbank and the result
threatened to be the same, whichever side finally considered itself
beaten. Many would leave the church.
During those weeks David's face became thin and drawn. Even the actions
of his closest friend, Dr. Benedict, hurt him, for Benedict refused
to remain neutral and became a raging partisan for David. The old
bachelor--while he never admitted it--adored 'Thusia and since he
had been dubbed “Uncle” he considered her his daughter (a mixing of
relationships) and nothing 'Thusia could do was wrong. He hurt David's
cause by his violence. Even 'Thusia's own father, Mr. Fragg, was less
partisan. David tried to act as peacemaker, but soon the quarrel seemed
to have gone beyond any adjustment.
Mary Wiggett went home from her father's office deeply hurt because her
father was uncompromisingly against David. Ellen Hardcome was delighted.
With old Sam Wiggett on her side she was sure of victory, and when she
left Mary she set about planning a final blow against David. She found
her husband in his shoe store and told him of the manner in which
old Wiggett had refused to help Mary. Together Ellen and her husband
discussed the best method of administering the _coup de grâce_.
Hardcome, being neither an elder nor a trustee, doubted the advisability
of forcing the matter immediately upon the attention of either body, for
he was not yet sure enough of them. The decision finally reached was to
ask for an unofficial meeting at which the opposition to David could
be crystallized--a meeting made up of enough prominent members of the
church to practically overawe any undecided elders and trustees. With
Sam Wiggett at the head of such a meeting no one could doubt the result.
David would have to go.
Hardcome's first step was to see Sam Wiggett, for he desired, above all
else, to have Wiggett call the meeting. The stubborn old man refused.
“I'm with you,” he said. “That wife of Dean's made all this trouble, but
I never sold her a shoe. You started this; call your own meeting.”
“You'll attend!” asked Hardcome.
“Yes.”
“And may we make you chairman!”
“Yes.”
“There may be some there who will try to talk down any motion or
resolution we may want to pass--”
“You leave them to me!” said Wiggett.
Of the proposed meeting Mary knew nothing. She planned to run down to
see David and 'Thusia after supper, although she had but faint hope of
inducing David to leave Riverbank for a “vacation” now that her father
had refused his aid. Wiggett, who still remained the head of his
household, although Mary and her husband were nominally in control,
ate his supper in grim silence and nothing was said about David or the
church affairs. Nor did Mary run down to the manse after supper as she
had planned. When the meal was half finished her nurse called her away
from the supper table to see her child, who was suddenly feverish and
“stopped up.” Mary did not return, and Derling, when he had ended his
meal, found her holding the little one in her arms.
“George,” she said, “I'm worried about baby. I'm afraid he's sick. Touch
his cheek; see how hot he is. Go for Dr. Benedict. I'm frightened.”
“Benedict!” said Derling. “What do you want that fellow for! I won't
have him in the house. I'll get Martin. I won't have Benedict, always
hanging about that dear dominie of yours!”
“He's jealous!” thought Mary with a sudden inward gasp of surprise. She
bent forward and brushed the baby's hair from the hot forehead. That
Derling could be jealous of David Dean had never occurred to Mary. Her
marriage had been so completely an alliance of fortune rather than of
love, and Derling had seemed so indifferent and lacking in affection,
that she had never even considered that jealousy might have a part in
his nature. Derling, she knew, conducted plenty of flirtations on his
own side; some were rather notorious affairs; but Mary was conscious of
never having overstepped the lines set for a good wife. She did not deny
to herself that she felt still a great affection for David, and she felt
that for David to leave Riverbank would be the greatest sorrow of her
life, but she had never imagined that Derling might think he had cause
for jealousy.
Derling was, however, like many men who are willing to flirt with
other women, an extremely jealous man. He was jealous of the time and
attention Mary gave the dominie. Derling had, therefore, thrown himself
into the ranks of the Hardcome adherents, and he had been one of those
who ran afoul of old Dr. Benedict's keen tongue. Some of the advice
Benedict had given him would have done him good had he acted on it, but
it cut deep. The old doctor knew human nature and how to make it squirm.
“Benedict is so much better with children, George,” said Mary, looking
up. “He seems to work miracles, sometimes.”
“If he came in this house, I would throw him out,” said Derling. “I
won't have him. That's flat!”
“Well, get Martin then, but I _don't_ have the faith in him I have in
Benedict,” Mary said.
Martin came. He said it was nothing, that the child had a croupy cold
and he left a powder for the fever and advised Mary what to do in case
the child got worse during the night. When he came the next day he
said the boy was much better. That evening Derling, sent downtown for
medicine, heard at the druggist's that 'Thusia's child had diphtheria
and that there was a fresh outbreak of the disease in town. He drove
his horse home at a gallop and found Martin there, and Mary, white and
panic-stricken, wringing her hands. When the young doctor admitted that
the child had diphtheria Derling, in a rage, almost threw him out of
the house. A slight fever was one thing, the dread disease was quite
another, and he left Mary weeping, and lashed his horse in search of Dr.
Benedict.
The old doctor was not at home; Derling found him at David's and
found him in a tearing rage. Mrs. Hardcome, hoping to force David's
resignation, had just called to warn David that if he wished to protect
himself he must attend the meeting the next evening. Benedict was still
spluttering with anger and tramping up and down David's little study,
when Derling found him.
“You!” he shouted. “Go to your house! I'd let you all rot first, the
whole lot of you. Go get your Martin, you called him quick enough.
I wouldn't go if you got on your knees to me. You and your dog-faced
father-in-law and your Hardcomes, trying to drive this poor girl out of
town! If this was my house I'd throw you out. I will anyway! Get out!”
Poor Derling--harmless enough creature--did all but get on his knees.
He went away haggard, and looking twenty years older, to find some other
physician. He got Wagenheim, a poor substitute. In fact there was no
substitute for Benedict. It may have been that luck favored him, but the
old doctor seemed able to wrest children from the clutches of the awful
disease far oftener than other physicians. Derling felt that the angry
old doctor had condemned his son to death. With the witlessness of
a distracted man he tried to find Rose Hinch at her room on the main
street, thinking Rose might plead for him with Benedict. He might have
known Rose would be with 'Thusia in such an hour of trial. He went home,
dreading to face Mary, and found Wagenheim doing what he could, which
was little enough. Mary was not there.
When Wagenheim came Mary had guessed that Derling had not got Benedict,
and she guessed why. She ran, half dressed and hatless as she was, all
the way to the manse. In her agony she still thought clearly; Benedict
would be there, and if he was not there David would be, and in
David--calm and faithful to all his people even when they turned against
him--she placed her hope. In the dark she could not find the bell and
she was fumbling at the door when it opened and 'Thusia stood before
her, silhouetted against the light. With the impulse of one suffering
mother in the presence of another, Mary grasped 'Thusia's arms.
“'Thusia!” she cried. “My boy is dying and Benedict won't come. Can't
you make him come? He knows, and he won't come!”
'Thusia drew back in horror.
“He knows? And he won't go?” she exclaimed. “But Mary, he must
go! Why--why--but he must go, Mary! I don't understand!
Benedict--won't--go?”
She turned and flew to the study where Benedict had usurped David's
easy-chair. She stood before him, one mother pleading for another. No
one but the three--Benedict and 'Thusia and Mary--will ever know what
she said, but when she had said it old Benedict drew himself out of the
chair and went with Mary.
A week later little Davy, 'Thusia's child, died. Mary was more
fortunate; her boy recovered and although it was long before he was
strong again Mary treasured him all the more. Rose Hinch, her work at
David's ended, went to her and for many weeks was like another mother to
the sick child.
But it was the night following old Benedict's denunciation of Derling
and all the Hardcome clique that David Dean found a new supporter. The
meeting that was to end his stay in Riverbank was to be held in Ned
Long's office and David went early, not to be accused of cowardice. He
left 'Thusia and Rose with the boy, drove old Benedict away, and went
alone. He walked slowly, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind
him, for he had no hope left. It was so he came to the foot of Ned
Long's office stairs and face to face with old Sam Wiggett standing in
the dark of the entry. He stopped short, for the bulky old man did not
move aside.
“Huh!” growled the old lumberman. “So it's you, is it? What are you
doing here?”
“There's a meeting--” David began.
“Meeting? No, by the eternal! there's not going to be any meeting, now
nor ever! I'll throw them out neck and crop; I'll boot them out, but
there'll be no meeting. Go home!” In the dark the heavy-jowled old
man scowled at the slender young dominie. Suddenly he put his hand on
David's shoulder. “Dean--Dean--” he said; “you and that little wife of
yours--” That was all he could say. Mary's boy, at home, was making the
awful struggle for life.
And there was no meeting. A month later Mr. and Mrs. Hardcome went to
the Episcopalians, and a half year later to the Congregationalists,
where they remained. There was a lull in the church quarrel during the
days when little Davy was sickest, and while David and 'Thusia were in
the first cruel days of grief. There were but few bitter enough to wish
to take up the fight again against the sorrowing 'Thusia. The quarrel
was buried with little Davy, for when David entered the pulpit again,
and the congregation waited to learn how their leaders would lead them,
the powerful man of the church decided for them. When David came down
from the pulpit old Sam Wiggett, stolid, heavy-faced and thick-necked,
waited for him at the head of the aisle and placed his arm around
David's shoulders, and Mary Derling crossed the aisle and stood beside
'Thusia Dean.
David had won.