MACK was not the only weak creature David was trying to help.
Helpfulness was his life. I do not want you to think of David as eager
for overwork, or as eager for greater burdens. He was always loaded down
with others' fights against poverty, passion and sin because something
within him always said: “This is one case in which you can be of actual
help.” Before he was aware he would be enlisted in these individual
battles, with all the close personal details that made them living
sorrows.
Inside the broad fight the church was making to strengthen character and
maintain morality these individual battles were fought. How could David
stand aloof from the battle of old Mrs. Miggs against poverty, with her
penchant for spending the alms she received for flummery dress; or
from the battle of old Wickham Reid against his insane inclination to
suicide; or from the battles of all the backsliders of one kind and
another; or from the battle of the Rathgebers against starvation; the
battle of young Ross Baldwin against the trains of thought that were
urging him to unbelief; or all the battles against alcohol! These were
lame dogs David was helping over stiles. There were battles David won in
an hour; there were other battles that lengthened into sieges, where sin
and sinners “dug in” and struggled for years.
In some of these 'Thusia could help David, and she did help, most
willingly, but 'Thusia had her own battles. Like most ministers' wives
she had a constant battle to make David's inadequate salary meet the
household expenses. When, after one of the usual church quarrels, those
in favor of putting the choir in surplices won, 'Thusia was sorry she
was not in the choir; her worn Sunday gown would not then be a weekly
humiliation. Her hats, poor things! were problems as difficult to
finance as a war. The grocer's bill was a monthly catastrophe; “the
wood is low again, David,” was an announcement 'Thusia felt was almost
unkind. She spent five times as long turning a dress that was no
pleasure after it was turned than she should have had to spend getting
a new one. The lack of a few dollars to “do with” is the greatest waster
of a faithful home-keeper's time.
The hope of a call to a church that will pay enough to supply those few
dollars is one many ministers' wives cherish.
David picked up his hat and waited on his own porch until he saw Mack
come from the Mannings' door; then he crossed the street.
“'Lo, dominie!” Mack said unsteadily. “Little girl's been giving me Hail
Columbia. She's all right, dominie; fine little girl. I'm ashamed of
myself. Told you so, didn't I, little girl?”
David put his hand on Mack's shoulder.
“She _is_ a fine girl, Mack,” he said. “There's no finer girl in America
than Amy. Suppose we take a walk, Mack, a good long walk out into
the country and tell each other just how fine Amy is.” Mack smiled
knowingly. He put a hand on David's shoulder, so that the two men stood
like some living statue of “United we stand.”
“Couldn't tell all about how fine a little girl she is in _one_ walk,”
he said.
“Come!” said David.
He put his arm through Mack's, and thus he led him away. The assistance
was necessary, for Mack was drunker than he had seemed. David led him to
the country roads by the shortest route, that passing the cemetery, and
when they were beyond the town he walked Mack hard. He let Mack do the
talking and kept him talking of Amy, for of what would a lover, drunk
or sober, rather talk than of his sweetheart! It was dark and long past
David's supper hour when they reached the town again, and David drew
Mack into the manse for a “bite.” After they had eaten he led him into
the study.
Mack was well past the unpleasant stage of his intoxication now, and
with 'Thusia sewing in her little, low rocker and Mack in a comfortable
chair and David slumped down in his own great chair, they talked of Amy
and of a hundred things David knew how to make interesting. It was ten
when 'Thusia bade them good-night and went out of the study.
“The Mannings are still up,” said David, and Mack turned and looked out
of the window.
“God, but I am a beast!” said Mack.
“You are worse than that, Mack, because you are a man,” said David.
“Yes, I'm worse than a beast,” said Mack. He meant it. David, deep in
his chair, his eyes on Mack's face, tapped his thumbs slowly together.
“Mack,” he asked, “just how much of a hold has this drink got on you!”
“Oh, I can stop any time I--”
“Yes, so can Doc Benedict,” said David. “He stops whenever he has had
his periodical and his nerves stop their howling for the alcohol. I
don't mean that, Mack. Just how insistent is the wish for the stuff,
when you haven't had it for a while, if it makes you forget Amy as you
did to-day!”
“Well, it is pretty insistent,” Mack admitted. “I don't mean to get
the way I was this afternoon, dominie. Something starts me and I keep
going.”
David's thumbs tapped more and more slowly.
“You still have the eyes of a man, Mack,” he said, “and you are still
able to look me in the eyes like a man, Mack,” he said. “We ought to be
able to beat this thing. Now go over and say good-night to Amy. She'll
sleep better for seeing you as you are now.”
The next day David learned more, and so did 'Thusia. What David learned
was that the two months that had elapsed between Mack's engagement spree
and his next was the longest period the young fellow had been sober for
some time, and that Mack had already been docketed in the minds of those
who knew him best as a hard and reckless drinker. It meant the fight
would be harder and longer than David had hoped. What 'Thusia learned
was that Amy had had a long talk with Mack after he had left David.
“She did not tell him, David, but she told me, that she could not marry
him if he let this happen. She can't marry a drunkard; no one would want
her to; but if she throws him over he will be gone, David. She'll give
him his chance, and she will help us--or let us help her--but when she
is sure he is beyond help she will send him away. And when she sends him
away--”
“If she sends him away one great influence will be lost,” said David.
“She must not send him away.”
“If he comes to her drunk again,” said 'Thusia, as one who has saved the
worst tidings until last, “she will have no more to do with him.”
In less than a week Mack fell again, and Amy, her heart well-nigh
broken, gave him back his ring, and ended the engagement. Then, indeed,
began the hardest fight David ever made for a man against that man's
self. There were nights when David walked the streets with Mack until
the youth fell asleep as he walked, and days when Mack lay half stupid
in David's great chair while the dominie scribbled his sermon notes at
the desk beneath the spatter-work motto: “Keep an even mind under all
circumstances.” Often David and old Doc Benedict sat in the same study
and discussed Mack. David from the stand of one who wanted to save the
young fellow, and Benedict as one who knew the alcohol because it had
conquered him.
“Now, in my case,” the doctor would say, quite as if he were discussing
another person; and, “but on the other hand I had this gnawing pain in
my stomach, while--” and so on.
There were weeks when David felt he was making great progress and other
weeks when he felt he was not holding his own, and some frightful weeks
when Mack threw everything aside and plunged into unbridled dissipation.
The periods after these sprees were deceptive. During them Mack seemed
to want no liquor and vaunted his strength of will. He boasted he would
never touch another drop.
There were also periods of overwhelming defeat, and periods when Mack
was never drunk but never sober. Little by little, however, David felt
he was making progress. It was slow and there were no “Cures” to work
a sudden change, as there are now, but under the tottering structure of
Mack's will David was slowly building a foundation of serious thought.
Mack was changing. His dangerous and illusive bravado was bit by bit
yielding to a desire to do what David wished.
It was slow work. Rather by instinct than by logic David saw that to
save Mack he must make Mack like him better than he liked anyone in
Riverbank. Our David had none of that burly magnetism that draws men in
a moment; those of us who liked him best were those who had known him
longest, and he was not the man a youth like Mack would instinctively
choose as a dearest friend and most frequent companion. In David's mind
the idea probably formed itself thus: “I must make Mack come to me as
often as possible,” and, “Mack won't come unless he likes me.” He set
about making Mack like him, and making him like 'Thusia and little Roger
and baby Alice, and making him like the manse and all that was in it.
With Amy turning her face from Mack, and Mack's mother varying between
shrewish scolding and maudlin tears, and Mack's father wielding no
weapon but a threat of disinheritance, it became necessary that Mack
should have someone he wished to please, someone he liked and respected
and wished to please more than he wished to please his insistent nerves.
Each touch of eagerness added to Mack's face as he came up the manse
walk David counted a gain.
And 'Thusia, beside what she did for Mack in making Mack love the manse
and all those in it, worked with Amy and kept alive the flame of her
love.
They were dear people, our Dominie Davy and his wife. In time little
Roger became as eager to see Mack as Mack was to see David, and Mack
became “Ungel Mack” to the child. The boy would climb the gate and cry,
“Here cometh Ungel Mack!” with all the eagerness of joyful childhood.
Sometimes when Mack was drunk, but not too drunk, David would lead Roger
into the study, and the boy would say, “Poor Ungel Mack, you thick?” It
all helped.
Together Mack and David made the fight. Amy, according to her light,
did her part, too. She never fled from David's little porch when she
happened to be there and saw Mack coming up the street. She always gave
Mack her hand in frank and friendly manner. She did not let the other
young fellows pay her attentions. It was as if Mack had never courted
her; as if they were bound by a friendship that had never ripened into
anything warmer but that might some day. Mack was fine about it; eager
as he was to have Amy he held himself in check. Eventually it was a
great thing for them both; it was as if they were living the difficult
“getting acquainted” year that follows the honeymoon before the
honeymoon itself. They got to know each other better, perhaps, than any
Riverbank lovers had ever known one another.
It was one Sunday afternoon during this stage of Mack's fight, while
Mack and 'Thusia and Amy were on the porch and David taking his
between-sermon nap in his great chair, that the great opportunity
came to David's door. It came in the form of a man of sixty years,
silk-hatted and frock-coated. He walked slowly up the street from the
direction of the town, and when he reached David's gate he paused and
read the number painted on the riser of the porch step, opened the gate
and entered. He removed his hat and extended his hand to 'Thusia.
“You are Mrs. Dean, I know,” he said, smiling. “My name is Benton, and I
don't think you know me. Mr. Dean is in?”
There were many men of many kinds came to David's door from one end of
a year to the other, but never had a man come whose face so quickened
'Thusia's heart. It was a strongly modeled face and gave an impression
of power. The nose was too large and the lips were too large, so were
the brows, so were all the features. It was a face that was too large
for itself, it left no room for the eyes, which had to peer out as best
they could from between the brows that crowded them from above, and the
cheekbones that crowded them from below, but they were kind, keen, sane
eyes; they were even twinkling eyes. The man was rather too stout and
his skin was coarse-pored, almost as if pitted. 'Thusia had never seen
a homelier man, and yet she liked him from the moment he spoke. It was
partly his voice, full, soft and, in some way, satisfying. She felt he
was a big man and a good man and an honest man.
“Yes, Mr. Dean is in,” she said. “I think he is napping. If you will
just rest a minute until I see--”
David, as was his habit when his visitors were unknown to him, came
to the door. 'Thusia slipped into the kitchen. The day was hot and
Mr. Benton was hot, and there were lemons and ice in the refrigerator,
perhaps a pitcher of lemonade all ready to serve with thin cakes.
“Mr. Benton, my wife said, I think!” asked David. “Shall we sit out here
or go inside!”
“Might go inside,” said the visitor, and David led the way into the
study. Mr. Benton placed his hat on the floor beside the chair David
placed for him, unbuttoned his coat and breathed deeply.
“Quite a hill you are perched on here,” he said. “Fat man's misery on a
day like this. I suppose you saw me in church this morning!”
“Yes. I tried to reach you after the service, but you slipped out.”
“I ran away,” admitted Mr. Benton. “I wanted to think that sermon over
and cool down after it. It was a good sermon.”
David waited.
“I'm a lawyer,” said Mr. Benton, “and I'm cracked up as quite an orator
in one way and another, and I know that some of the things that sound
best hot from the lips don't amount to so much an hour later. That was
a good sermon, then and now! It was a remarkable sermon. I want you
to come to Chicago and preach that same sermon to us in the Boulevard
Church next Sunday, Mr. Dean.”
David, in his great chair, tapped his thumbs together and looked at Mr.
Benton. He was trying to keep an even mind under circumstances that made
his pulse beat almost wildly.
“You know now, as well as you ever will, why I'm here, I think,” said
Mr. Benton. “We are looking for the right man for our church, and I came
here to hear you. I think you are the man we want. I can almost say
that if you preach as well for us next Sunday as you did to-day we will
hardly dare let you come back for your household goods. Matter of fact,
the man I select is the man we want.”
“I know the church,” said David slowly. “It is a splendid church.”
“It _is_ a good church,” said Mr. Benton. “It is a strong church and
a large church. It is a church that needs a young man and a church in
which you will have opportunity for the greater good a man such as you
always desires. I jotted down a few figures and so on--”
Holding the paper in his hand Mr. Benton read the figures; figures of
membership, average attendance morning and evening, stipend, growth,
details even to the number of rooms in the manse and what the rooms
were.
“The church pays the salary of the secretary,” he added.
David's thumbs were pressed close together. His mind passed in rapid
review the patched breeches little Roger wore during the week, the
pitiful hat 'Thusia tried to make respectable, her oft-remodeled gowns.
It was comfort to the verge of luxury Mr. Benton was offering, as
compared with Riverbank. It was more than this: it was a broader field,
a greater chance.
Slumped down in his great chair, his eyes closed, David thought. It
would mean freedom from the petty quarrels that vexed the church at
Riverbank; it would mean freedom from cares of money. Out of the liberal
stipend Mr. Benton had mentioned they might even put aside a goodly bit.
It would mean he could start anew with a clean slate and be rid of the
stupid interference of all the Hardcome and Grimsby tribe. 'Thusia would
be with him, and Rose Hinch--who had become, in a way, a lay sister of
good works, helping him with his charities--could be induced to follow
him. Then he thought of old Mrs. Miggs, and of Wickham Reid, of the
Rathgebers and Ross Baldwin, and all those whose fight he was fighting
in Riverbank. And Mack! What would become of Mack!
Through the window he heard the voices of Mack and Amy.
“It is quite unexpected,” David said, opening his eyes. “I'll have
to--you have no objection to my speaking to my wife?”
The tinkling of ice in a pitcher sounded at the door.
“By all means, speak to her,” said Mr. Benton, and as 'Thusia tapped
David arose and opened the door. 'Thusia entered.
“'Thusia,” David said, “Brother Benton is from the Boulevard Church
in Chicago. He wants me to preach there next Sabbath and, if the
congregation is satisfied, I may be offered the pulpit.” The color
slowly mounted from 'Thusia's throat to her brow. She stood holding the
small tin tray, and the glasses trembled against the pitcher. It did not
need the figures Mr. Benton reread to tell 'Thusia all the opportunity
meant. Mr. Benton ceased, and still 'Thusia stood holding the tray. Her
eyes left Mr. Benton's uncouth face and found David's eyes.
“It--it's wonderful, David,” she said steadily, “but of course there's
Mack--and Amy!”
So Mr. Benton and the great opportunity went back to Chicago, after a
sip or two of 'Thusia's lemonade, and David dropped back into his great
chair and his old life of helpfulness, and 'Thusia went out on the porch
and smiled at Amy, and they all had lemonade.
From the day Mr. Benton entered David's door Mack never touched the
liquor again. It was a year before Amy felt sure enough to let him slip
the ring on her finger again, but it was as if David's sacrifice had
worked the final cure. Perhaps it did. Perhaps Mack, hearing, as all of
us did, of the great chance David had put aside, guessed what none of us
guessed--that it was for him David remained in Riverbank. Perhaps that
was why, when our church wanted to throw David aside in his old age like
a worn-out shoe, Mack Graham fought so hard and successfully to secure
for David the honorary title and the pittance.