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.
“It was because I saw it I waited,” she said. “This is what has been
worrying you.”
“Worrying me?”
“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--”
“But the church is not stingy, Mrs. Hardcome--indeed it is not. I have
been careless--”
“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.”
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.”
Lucille laughed.
“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.”
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.
“No,” he said firmly, “I can't take it. I can't permit it.”
“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.”
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.
“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 _not_ 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.”
“If I were in your place,” said Lucille frankly, “I would prefer to get
out of debt to-day.”
“But I repeat,” said David, “I cannot take the money.”
“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.”
“Not foolish but, perhaps, reluctant to accept personal charity,” said
Dean.
Lucille was not stupid, but she looked into his eyes some time before
she spoke.
“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.”
“If I could make the payments quarterly, on my salary days--” hesitated
David.
“Certainly!” cooed Lucille, delighted to have won her point. “It can be
that way.”
“I should like the transaction to be regular; a note with interest.
Seven per cent is usual, I believe.”
“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!”
“Congratulations?”
“Alice! She told me! I am so glad!”
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.