ON those days when 'Thusia was able to be downstairs Alice set a small
dinner table in the sitting room so that she might enjoy the company of
her husband and children. When David entered the sitting room Lucille
had departed, and Roger was there, waiting for his belated dinner.
Luckily his labors were not of sufficient importance to require prompt
hours--his dinner hour sometimes lasted the best half of the afternoon.
As David entered the room Alice ran to him, and threw her arms around
him; he could do no less than embrace her, for anything else would have
been like a slap in the face. He kissed her, but his face was grave.
“Father! Mother told you?” Alice said, still holding him. “Aren't you
surprised! Why,” she pouted, “you don't look a bit happy! But I know
why--you don't know Lanny. They don't know him, do they, pop?”
Her brother, who had already taken his place at the small table,
fidgeted. He was hungry.
“He's all right!” he said. “Lanny's fine.” Somehow the young Roger's
approval did not carry far with David.
“I think,” he said, “we are all hungry. We will have our food, and
discuss Alice's affairs later. I know I am too hungry to want to talk.”
“And you aren't even going to congratulate me!” pouted Alice playfully.
The dominie cut short further talk by saying grace, following it by the
operation of serving food from the dishes that were grouped around his
plate, and then:
“How is your grandfather, Roger?”
“Fine as a fiddle, father. And, I say! we are going to play Derlingport
this Saturday. We've arranged a series of three games, unless one or the
other of us wins the first two. We play the first here, and the second
in Derlingport. Honestly, I am glad to play a nine I'm a bit afraid
of; this licking the spots off the grangers is getting monotonous.
Derlingport has a pitcher that knows his business--Watts. But I'll
chance Lanny against him any day.”
“I should think so!” said Alice.
“Oh, you!” said Roger. “Because he has curly hair? A lot you know about
pitchers.”
“Well, I'm going to learn,” said Alice.
David broke the thread of the conversation. “'Thusia,” he said, “I have
arranged to clear up the bills we owe.”
“David!” his wife exclaimed, her pale cheeks coloring with pleasure.
“Did the trustees grant the advance on your salary?”
“No, hardly that,” he answered. “I saw Burton, but there is no money
available. He was very kind. The trustees are going to give me an
increase of salary--two hundred and fifty dollars more. It will be a
great help. You see, with the increase, I can pay off the loan I am
contracting in two or three years.”
'Thusia looked frightened.
“A loan? Are you borrowing money, David?”
“Lucille Hardcome offered it; she practically forced me to accept it,
'Thusia. It was all I could do to keep her from forcing it on me as a
gift. That I would not hear of, of course.”
“How much are you borrowing?” asked 'Thusia, with an intake of breath.
“It will be about a thousand dollars; a thousand, I think.”
“She could hand you ten thousand and not feel it, from what I hear,”
said Roger.
“'Thusia, you don't approve?” asked David. “Oh, I wish it could have
been anyone but Lucille!” said 'Thusia. “It seems so--But I know so
little of money matters. You would do what was best, of course, David.
It will be a great blessing to feel we are not making the tradesmen wait
for what is honestly theirs.”
“I should have consulted you,” David said, entirely without irony, for
he did consult her on most matters of importance. “It is not too late to
decline even now. I have not signed the note. She is to bring the money
this afternoon. But, if I refuse--”
He related his conversation with Lucille, as well as he could recall it.
“I hardly see how you could refuse,” 'Thusia admitted. “If she was
angered she would do something to show her displeasure. Deep as she is
in the church affairs I hardly feel that she is with us heart and soul
yet. She always seems like an outsider taking an interest because--I
shouldn't say it--she likes the prominence. That is why I wish you could
have had the money from another. I'm sure Mary would have lent it.”
“And of all the women I know,” said David, “Mary is the last I should
wish to borrow from. Had I my choice I would choose an entire outsider;
the more completely it is a business transaction the more pleased I am.”
No more was said then. Roger hurried away, not because his job called
him, but because, as catcher of his nine, it was his duty to keep in
practice; and some members of the nine might be on the levee willing to
pitch to him. Alice still waited.
“Will you let me speak with your mother awhile, daughter!” David said.
“Then we will call you.”
“Shall I take the dishes out first!” asked Alice.
“Yes.”
'Thusia raised herself a little on her pillows when Alice had quitted
the room, and David drew a chair to the side of her couch. For a few
moments they were silent.
“How did it happen!” David asked finally.
“David, you must not think unkindly of her; Alice is such a child--such
a dear girl! She has no worldliness; how should she have with you and me
for her parents! I think I am to blame if she has chosen wrongly. I am
afraid I have neglected her, David.”
“What an idea, 'Thusia! That is preposterous. Of course, I do not think
unkindly of her; but I do think she has chosen foolishly, as girls
sometimes will.”
“Yes, but I mean what I say, David. I am tied here, of course, but I
have given her so much freedom. I have trusted to her instinct to choose
suitable companions, when I should have remembered how careless and
foolish I was when I was her age.”
“What nonsense, dear!” said David. “If anyone is to blame it is myself.
How could you do any more than you have done, kept close here as you
are? How serious is it, 'Thusia?”
“I have hardly had time to decide; I am afraid it is very serious. She
was all ecstasy and happiness until she saw I was not as happy as she
was. I am afraid I let her see it too plainly. We must not let her think
we are angry with her, David; she is very much in love with him. Oh, she
praised him as a girl will praise a lover--her first lover!”
“I suppose she met him through Roger,” said David thoughtfully.
“No,” 'Thusia said. “I imagine Alice rather scorns Roger's ball-playing
friends. I think Lanny Welsh called something after her one evening when
she was passing the _Eagle_ office--passing the alley there. He thought
she was some other girl, I suppose. She was furious; she thought it was
the rudest thing she had ever known, but the next time she passed he
stopped her and apologized. She thinks it was noble of him. After that
he tipped his hat whenever she passed, and she nodded to him. Then
Roger introduced them. Lanny Welsh asked him to, I suppose. Now they are
engaged.”
David rested his head on his hand, and was silent. 'Thusia watched his
face.
“It is unfortunate; most unfortunate,” he said wearily.
“David, do you know anything about him!” 'Thusia asked.
“Only hearsay,” he answered.
“Has he been a bartender!”
“I have heard that. You know what his father is--little better than a
blackmailer.”
“David, what can we do?” asked 'Thusia.
“I don't know,” he answered. “No doubt she would give him up if we asked
it.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” said 'Thusia. “She is a good girl, but you
do not realize how she loves the boy--or thinks she loves him. She might
think we were unjust to him.”
What she implied David knew. Alice was, above all else, loyal. The
very intimation that Lanny Welsh lacked friends might strengthen her
partisanship, for she was like her father in having always a kindly
feeling for the under dog. The most uncompromised earthly happiness is
not the portion of those who feel for the under dog, for some dog is
always under. If a person is to take any interest in the world's dog
fights, and seek enjoyment therefrom, he must be thoroughly callous,
and not care a snap of his fingers what happens to the under dog. This
hard-hearted placidity must yield those who possess it a fund of
unvexed joy; most of us find our joy alloyed by our pity for Fortune's
unfavorites. A fair amount of carelessness regarding the under dog
is necessary for the most complete worldly success; and our dominie,
seeking to know himself, felt that if he had desired to prosper greatly
in a worldly way he should have been born without his keen desire to see
the under dog on top for a while, or at least without his inclination to
prevent all dog fights.
On the whole he did not think, however, that the callous-hearted got the
best out of life. The tough tympanum of a bass drum yields one sound,
and the tom-tom may be a fine instrument for war or joy dances, but a
delicately attuned violin quivers with more varied vibrations, and
even the minor chords must satisfy some of its fibers. In the museum
of eternity the tom-tom may have a place as a curiosity--as the musical
instrument of a crude people--but even a child can imagine its one note;
the fingers of the virtuoso tingle to touch the glass-enclosed violin,
and the imagination pleasures in the thought of the notes of joy and
sorrow it has given forth in its day.
Youth--as Alice--when born and brought up with a pity for the despised
is apt to carry the good quality over the line so far that it becomes
unreasonable. There is such a thing as innate devilishness that deserves
chastisement; some of the things other men scorn deserve our scorn also;
some men and women, too. But a girl in love, as Alice was, or thought
she was, is not a very reasonable being. With her love as a certainty,
she scorns the past and sees perfection in the future. Young lovers are
all egotists to the extent of thinking: “If I chose him he must be good
at heart and, no doubt, his past weakness was because he had not known
me.” In herself she sees his needed opportunity, and her loyalty to her
ideal of herself and to him resents the interference of those who would
interpose obstacles. Alice, being by nature loyal, and by nature and
training inclined to pity, might easily be driven to a blind and gently
berserk, but none the less everlasting, battle for Lanny Welsh by the
very opposition that sought to win her away from him.
David was the less inclined to do anything instantly because his sense
of justice was so strong. He knew too little about Lanny Welsh to
condemn the young man in his own mind without further facts. Had he had
the giving he would not have presented Alice to anyone like Lanny, for
he would have chosen some youth he knew better--and that meant Mary
Derling's boy Ben--but, having his innate desire to do justice to all
men, and as Alice had already chosen Lanny, David felt he should learn
more about Lanny before he made an absolute decision to oppose his
daughter's choice. He knew enough of men and life to believe the tags
the world put on young fellows were not always the proper tags. If the
match was to be opposed the method of opposition to be adopted would
depend on his knowledge of Lanny's character and circumstances, and as
yet he knew little--too little to base an active opposition upon.
“What have you said to her, 'Thusia!” he asked.
“I told her I was surprised, and that I must speak to you before I could
be sure what to say.”
This was close enough to the fact. The saying had taken an hour or more
and had been flavored by affectionate weepings and embraces, but in what
she told David 'Thusia did not miss the fact far.
“I'm glad of that,” he said. “I'll ask Alice to come in.”
She came, rosy-cheeked and tremulously happy, and the interview left her
happy and less tremulous. Of her father's affection she was sure, and of
his justice she never had a doubt. She was not surprised that he should
wish to know more of Lanny before he ventured to feel enthusiastic about
the engagement, and she was so sure Lanny was the best of men that she
had no fear of the final result of her father's gentle investigations.
From an interview so kindly, and permeated with affection, she went back
to the kitchen happily.
“I imagine you'll have very little trouble in finding out all about
him,” 'Thusia said, and then, her bravery shattering itself a little
against her motherly ambition: “David, I'm sure it is a mistake! I'm
sure she should not marry him!”
“I am afraid Alice has been too hasty,” said David.
They both meant the same thing: nothing more unfortunate could have
happened. 'Thusia gave words to one of the reasons when she added: “Mary
will be so disappointed!”
Not a word had ever been said on the subject, but the tacit hope had
long been existent in the hearts of Mary and the two Deans that Alice
and Ben Derling might become lifemates. Until Alice had dropped the
bombshell of her engagement into the placidly intrenched hope everything
had seemed trending that way. There was no question that Ben admired
Alice, and Alice had seemed fond enough of Ben.
Although David had never allowed the filmy intuition to become an actual
thought, the gossamer suggestion had floated across his mind more than
once that it would be a good thing if Alice and Ben married. He thought,
boldly enough, that it would be a suitable match in some ways--marrying
in the same faith; marrying one who would be a good husband; marrying
one whose social position in Riverbank would increase rather than lower
David's own capacity for good in the community. Of the marriage as a
financial matter beneficial to himself and 'Thusia he refused to think,
but that gossamer ghost of thought would come floating by at times: an
alliance with the Derling wealth would make old age less to be dreaded;
somewhere there would be food and winter warmth and a nook by the
fireside, where he and 'Thusia might end their days without dire
penury in case, as is so often the case with ministers, he outlived
his usefulness. He felt the thought, gossamer light as it was, to be
unworthy, but it came unbidden, and there was comfort in it. And no
man is a worse man for not wishing to end his life in an almshouse.
Certainly no man is a better man for wishing to end his days on the
Riverbank Poor Farm. The youth, Roger, unluckily, seemed little likely
to be able to support himself; if Alice married into poverty, or worse,
the state of the family in days to come threatened to be sad indeed.
But David went back to his study in hopefulness, for all that. Lanny
Welsh might be better than he feared, and if Lucille Hardcome subscribed
even half what she had suggested David might be able to keep even with
the world or even save a little. He had hardly entered his study before
Lanny Welsh and Alice came tapping on his door.