THE bodies were recovered, had been recovered before George Tunnison
started on the long trip back to Riverbank. It seemed that Ben could
not swim, and when the skiff turned over he grasped Roger, and they both
went down. The river was covered with floating ice. Tunnison, according
to his own account, did what he could, but if the two came up it must
have been to find the floating ice between them and the air. They were
beyond resuscitation when they were found. Of Mary the doctor's verdict
was fatty degeneration of the heart; any shock would have killed her.
In the sad days and weeks that followed Rose Hinch was the comforter,
offering no words but making her presence a balm. She neither asked nor
suggested that she come, but came and made her home in the manse. It
is difficult to express how she helped David and 'Thusia and doubly
bereaved Alice and querulous old Mr. Fragg over the hard weeks. She was
Life Proceeding As It Must. It might almost be said that she was the
normal life of the family, continuing from where sorrow had wrenched
David and 'Thusia and Alice and the grandfather from it, and, by mute
example, urging them to live again. Her presence was comfort. Her manner
was a sweet suggestion that life must still be lived. She made the
grandfather's bed in Roger's room, for a room vacated by death is an
invitation to sorrow; she began the sewing where it had been dropped,
and 'Thusia and Alice, because Rose sewed, took their needles. Work
was what they needed. They missed Mary every hour, and David missed her
most, for she had been his ablest assistant in his town charities, but
the greater work thrown on him by her going was the best thing to keep
his mind off the loss that caused it, and Rose Hinch intentionally
refrained from giving her usual aid in order that the work might fill
his time the more. Lucille Hardcome alone--no one could have made
Lucille understand--doubled her assistance. The annoyance her
ill-considered help caused him was also good for David; it too helped
him to forget other things.
Grandfather Fragg died within the year. Rose had long since left the
manse, unwilling to be an expense after she was no longer needed, and
had taken up her nursing again, for she was always in demand. As each
six months ended David carried a new note to Lucille, and had a new
battle with her, for she wanted no note; she urged him to consider the
loan a gift. This he would not listen to. He had cut his expenses to the
lowest possible figure, and was able to pay Lucille a little each time
now--fifty dollars, or twenty-five, or whatever sum it was possible to
save. He managed to keep out of debt. Alice, who had rightly asked new
frocks and this and that when Ben was alive, seemed to want nothing
whatever. She did not mope but she seemed to consider her life now
ordered, not completed, but to be as it now was. She was dearer to David
and 'Thusia than ever, and they did not urge her to desert them. In time
she would, they hoped, forget and be young again, but she waited
too long, and they let her, and she was never to leave them. Her
indifference to things outside the manse and the church permitted David
to save a few dollars he might otherwise have spent on her. So few were
they that what he was able to pay Lucille represented it.
For some time after the tragedy that had come so suddenly David had no
heart to take up the question he had discussed with the banker. Burton,
of course, said nothing when not approached, regarding the increase in
David's stipend. He did mention to David, however, the desired increase
in Lucille's subscription, and with the death of Mary Derling this
increase became more desirable than ever. Old Sam Wiggett and, after his
death, Mary, had been the most liberal supporters of the church. It
was found, when Mary's will was read, that she had left the church ten
thousand dollars as an endowment. Of this only the interest could be
used, and her contributions, with what Ben gave, had amounted to far
more--to several hundred dollars more.
More than ever Lucille loomed large as the most important member of
the church. With the wiping out of the last of the Wiggett strain in
Riverbank, the Wiggett money went to Derlings in other places, and
Lucille became, by promotion, seemingly the wealthiest Presbyterian.
Burton wrinkled his brow over the church finances, but, luckily, no
repairs were needed, and there was a little money in the bank, and
Mary's endowment legacy made his statements look well on paper. I think
you can understand how the trustees and the church went ahead placidly,
month following month, unworried, because feeling sure Lucille would
presently do well by the church. She was like a rich uncle always about
to die and leave a fortune, but never dying. It was understood that when
her investments were satisfactorily arranged she would act. At first
this reason may have been real, but Lucille knew the value of being
sought. Like the rich, undying uncle she commanded more respect as a
prospective giver than she would have received having given.
It was extremely distasteful to David to have to ask Lucille to give; it
seemed like asking her to pay herself what he owed her, and when he had
done his duty by asking her several times, he agreed with Burton that
the banker could handle the matter best. A year, more or less, after
Mary Derling's death the banker was able to announce that Lucille had
agreed to give two hundred dollars a year more than she had been giving,
and that as soon as she was able she would give more.
She spoke of the two hundred dollars as a trifle. It brought the church
income to about where it had been before Mary Derling's death.
Without actually formulating the idea, Lucille had suggested to herself
that she would celebrate her conquest of David Dean by increasing her
yearly gift to the church to the utmost she could afford. Her blind
self-admiration led her to think she was making progress. David was
always the kindest of men, gentle and showing the pleasure he felt in
having companionship in good works, and Lucille probably mistook this
for a narrower, personal admiration. It was inevitable that he should be
intimate with her, she directed so many of the church activities. If he
were to speak of the choir, the Sunday school, church dinners, any of a
dozen things, he must speak to Lucille. They were often together. They
walked up the hill from church together, Banker Burton often with them;
Lucille, in her low-hung carriage, frequently carried David to visit his
sick, and he considered it thoughtful kindness.
Many in Riverbank still remember David Dean, as he sat back against
the maroon cushions of the Hardcome carriage, Lucille erect and never
silent. He seemed weary during those years--for Lucille courted him
slowly--but he never faltered in his work. If anything he was doubly
useful to the town, and doubly helpful and inspiring to his church
people. Sorrow had mellowed him without breaking him. He had been with
Lucille on a visit to a boy, one of the Sunday school lads who had
broken a leg, and Lucille had taken a bag of oranges. The house was on
the other side of the town, and Lucille drove through the main street,
stopping at the post office to let David get his mail. He met some
friend in the office, and came out with a smile on his lips, his mail
in his hand. Lucille dropped him at the manse. He walked to the little
porch and sat there, tearing open the few unimportant letters, and
glancing at the contents. There was one paper, and he tore off the
wrapper. It was the _Declarator_. He tore it twice across, and then
curiosity, or a desire to know what he might have to battle against,
made him open the sheet and look at the “Briefs.” The column began:
“It is entirely proper for a minister of the gospel to ride hither and
yon with whomsoever he chooses, male or female, wife or widow, when his
debts are paid. We should love our neighbors.”
“A minister of the gospel is, like Caesar's wife, above suspicion. _Honi
soit!_ Shame upon you for thinking evil of the spotless.”
David read to the bottom of the column. It was stupid venom, the slime
of a pen grown almost childish, lacking even the sparkle of wit, but it
was aimed so directly at him that he burned with resentment. The last
line was the vilest: “Who paid the parson's debts?” suggesting the truth
that Lucille had paid them, as the rest of the column suggested that
she and David were more intimate than they should be. He sat holding the
paper until 'Thusia called him. Before he went to her he walked to
the kitchen, and burned the paper in the kitchen stove, and washed his
hands.