Butler Ellis Parker
Dominie Dean: A Novel

V. CHURCH TROUBLES

THE leaves of the maples before the small white manse were red with their October hue, and the sun rays were slanting low across the little front yard at a late afternoon angle, when David, his hat in his hand and his long black coat thrown open, paused a few moments at his gate to greet Rose Hinch, who was approaching from up the hill.

David had changed little. He was still straight and slender, his yellow hair still curled over his broad forehead, and his gray eyes were still clear and bright. His motto, “Keep an even mind under all circumstances,” still hung above his desk in his study. For nearly six years, happy years, ‘Thusia had been David’s wife.

The old rivalry between ‘Thusia and Mary seemed forgotten. For one year old Wiggett, refusing Mary’s pleadings, had sat under a Congregational preacher, but the Congregational Church – being already supplied with leaders – offered him small opportunity to exert his stubborn and somewhat surly desire for dictatorship, and he returned to sit under and glare at David, and resumed his position of most powerful elder.

During the first year of ‘Thusia’s married life

Mary was often at the manse. ‘Thusia’s love was still in the frantically eager stage; she would have liked to have lived with one arm around David’s neck, and she was unwittingly in constant danger of showing herself all a dominie’s wife should not be. Her taste for bright clothes and her carelessness of conventionality threatened a harsh awakening for David. During that dangerous first year Mary made herself almost one of the household.

‘Thusia, strange to say, did not resent it. Mary kept, then and always, her love for David, as a good woman can. But little older than ‘Thusia, she was far wiser and immeasurably less volatile and, having lost David as a lover, she transmuted her love into service.

Probably she never thought her feelings into a conscious formula. At the most she realized that she was still very fond of David and that she was happier when helping him than at any other time.

‘Thusia’s gay companions of the days before David’s coming were quite impossible now that ‘Thusia was a dominie’s bride, and ‘Thusia recognized this and was grateful for Mary’s companionship during the months following the honeymoon. A young bride craves a friend of her own age, and Mary was doubly welcome. Her advice was always sound, and ‘Thusia was quick to take it. Mary’s friendship also made the congregation’s acceptance of ‘Thusia far easier, for anyone so promptly taken up by the daughter of the church’s richest member and most prominent elder had her way well prepared in advance. Mary, fearing perhaps that ‘Thusia might be annoyed by what might seem unwarranted interest in her affairs, was wise enough to have herself elected head of the women’s organization that had the care and betterment of the manse and its furnishings. To make the house fit for a bride she suggested and carried through changes and purchases. She opened her own purse freely, and what ‘Thusia did not suggest she herself suggested.

“Mary is lovely!” ‘Thusia told David.

A year or two after Mary had thus made herself almost indispensable to ‘Thusia she married.

“Oh, I knew it long ago!” ‘Thusia said in answer to David’s expression of surprise at the announcement of the impending wedding. She had known it a month, which was just one day less than Mary herself had known it. Mary’s husband, one of the Derlings of Derlingport, was due to inherit wealth some day, but in the meanwhile old Sash-and-Door Derling was glad to shift the nattily dressed, inconsequential young loafer on to Mr. Wiggett’s shoulders. Wiggett found him some sort of position in the Riverbank bank and young Derling gradually developed into a cheerful, pattering little business man, accumulating girth and losing hair. ‘Thusia rather cruelly but exactly expressed him when she told Rose Hinch he was something soft and blond with a gold toothpick. If Mary was ever dissatisfied with him she gave no sign.

Those who had wondered what kind of a minister’s wife flighty, flirty, little ‘Thusia Fragg would make soon decided she made a good one. She can hardly be better described than by saying she sang at her work. David’s meager stipend did not permit the employment of a maid, and ‘Thusia had little enough leisure between meals for anything but cheerful singing at her tasks. She cooked, swept, baked and washed. There were ministers’ wives in Riverbank who were almost as important in church work as their husbands, and this was supposed to be part of their duties. They were expected to lead in all social money-getting affairs, and, in general, to be not merely wives but assistant ministers. If ‘Thusia had attempted this there might have been, even with Mary’s backing, trouble, for every woman in the church remembered that only a short while before ‘Thusia had been an irresponsible, dancing, street-gadding, young harum-scarum of a girl. Her interference would have been resented. With good sense, or good luck, she left this quasi assistant ministry to Mary, who gladly assumed it, and ‘Thusia gave all her time to the pleasanter task of being David’s happy little wife and housekeeper.

David, at the manse gate, was waiting for Rose Hinch. Rose, when she saw David, came on with a brisker step. Rose had become David’s protégée, the first and closest of many that – during his long life – gathered about him, leaning on him for help and sympathy. In return Rose Hinch was always eager to help David in any way she could. She was Riverbank’s first precursor of the trained nurse. David and old Benedict had worried about her future, until David suggested that the old doctor give her what training he could and put her in charge of such of his cases as needed especial care. Rose took up the work eagerly. She lived in a tiny room above a store on the main street. To many in Riverbank she represented all that a trained nurse and a lay Sister of Charity might.

“Well, Rose,” David said, “you seem happy. Is this fine October air getting into your blood too?”

“I suppose that helps,” said Rose, “but the Long boy is so far past the crisis that I’m not needed any longer. I’m so glad he’s getting well; he is such a dear, patient little fellow. That’s why I’m happy, David. And you seem fairly well content with the world, I should judge.”

“I am, Rose!” he answered. “Have you time to see ‘Thusia for a minute or two. I know she wants to see you.”

He held the gate open and Rose entered. David put his hat on one of the gateposts and stood with his arms on the top of the gate, “bathing in beauty,” as he told ‘Thusia later. The sun, where it touched the maple leaves, turned them to flame. Through a gap in the trees he could catch a glimpse of the Mississippi and the varicolored foliage on the Illinois shore, the reds softened to purple by the October haze. For a few minutes he let himself forget his sick and his soul-sore people and his duties, and stood in happy thoughtlessness, breathing October.

Rose came out.

“It’s all settled. I’m coming,” she said, “and, oh, David! I am so glad!”

“We are all glad,” said David.

Thus it happened that no wife ever approached motherhood more happily than motherless little ‘Thusia. With David and kind old Doctor Benedict and gentle, efficient Rose Hinch at hand, and Mary as delighted as if the child was to be her own, and all of them loving her, ‘Thusia did not give a moment to fear. The baby, when it came, was a boy, and Doctor Benedict said it was the finest in the world, and immediately nominated himself the baby’s uncle. He bought the finest solid silver, gold-lined cup to be had in Riverbank and had it engraved, “Davy, Junior, from Uncle Benedict,” with the date. This was more than he did for Mary Derling’s baby, which came a month later. He gave a silver spoon there, one of about forty that lucky infant received from near and far.

‘Thusia was up and about, singing as before, in due time. Rose Hinch remained for the better part of a. month and departed absolutely refusing any compensation. The winter was as happy as any David ever knew. Davy Junior was a strong and fairly well-behaved baby; ‘Thusia was in a state of ecstatic bliss, and in the town all the former opposition to David had been long since forgotten. With the calmness of an older man but with a young man’s energy he went up and down the streets of the town on his comforting errands. He was fitting into his niche in the world with no rough edges, all of them having been worn smooth, and it seemed that it was his lot to remain for the rest of his life dominie of the Presbyterian Church of Riverbank, each year better loved and more helpful.

April and May passed blissfully, but by the end of June an unexpected storm had gathered, and David did not know whether he could remain in Riverbank another month.

Late in May an epidemic of diphtheria appeared in Riverbank, several cases being in David’s Sunday school and the school was closed. Mary, in a panic, fled to Derlingport with her child. She remained nearly a month with her husband’s parents, but by that, time Derlingport was as overrun by the disease as Riverbank had been and conditions were reported better at home; so she came back, bringing the child. She returned to find the church in the throes of one of those violent quarrels that come with all the violence and suddenness of a tropical storm. Her short absence threatened to result in David’s expulsion from the church.

On the last Saturday of June old Sam Wiggett sat at the black mahogany desk in his office studying the columns of a New York commercial journal – it was the year when the lumber situation induced him to let who wished think him a fool and to make his first big purchase of Wisconsin timberlands – when his daughter, Mary Derling, entered. She came sweeping into the office dressed in all the fuss and furbelow of the fashionable young matron of that day, and with her was her cousin, Ellen Hardcome. Sam Wiggett turned.

“Huh! what are you down here for!” he asked. He was never pleased when interrupted at his office. “Where’s the baby!”

“I left him with nurse in the carriage,” said Mary. “Can’t you say good-day to Ellen, father!”

“How are you!” said Mr. Wiggett briefly. Mrs. Hardcome acknowledged the greeting and waited for Mary to proceed.

“Well, father,” said Mary, “this thing simply cannot go on any longer. Something will have to be done. This quarrel is absolutely breaking up the church.”

“Huh!” growled Mr. Wiggett. “What’s happening now!”

“David is going to preach to-morrow,” said Mary dropping into a vacant chair and motioning Ellen to be seated. “After all the trouble we took to get Dr. Hotchkiss to come from Derling-port, and after the ladies offering to pay for a vacation for David out of the fund – ”

“What!” shouted Wiggett, striking the desk a mighty blow with his fist. “Didn’t I tell you you women have no right to use that fund for any such nonsense! That’s money raised to pay on the mortgage. You’ve no right to spend it for vacations for your star-gazing, whipper-snapper preacher. No! Nor for anything else!”

“But, father!” Mary insisted.

“I don’t care anything about your ‘but, father.’ That’s mortgage money. You women ought to have turned it over to the bank long ago. You have no right to keep it. Pay for a vacation! You act like a lot of babies!”

“Father – ”

“Pay for a vacation! Much he needs a vacation! Strong as an ox and healthy as a bull; doesn’t have anything to do the whole year ‘round but potter around town and preach a couple of sermons. It’s you women get these notions into your preachers’ heads. You turn them into a lot of babies.”

“Father, will you let me say one word before you quite tear me to pieces! A great many people in our church like David Dean. It is all right to bark ‘Woof! woof! Throw him out neck and crop!’ but you know as well as I do that would split the church.”

“Well, let it split! If we can’t have peace – ”

“Exactly, father!” Mary said quietly. “If we cannot have peace in the church it will be better for David Dean to go elsewhere, but before that happens – for I think many of our people would leave our church if David goes – shouldn’t we do all we can to bring peace? Ellen agrees with me.”

“In a measure I do; yes,” said Ellen Hard-come.

“Ellen and Mr. Hardcome,” Mary continued, “are willing to promise to do nothing immediately if David will go away for a month or two. If we can send him away for a couple of months until some of the bitterest feeling dies everything may be all right. We women will be glad enough to make up and pay back anything we have to borrow from the fund. I think, father, if you spoke to David he might go.”

“Better get rid of him now,” Wiggett growled. Ellen Hardcome smiled. This was what she wanted. Mary looked at the heavy-faced old dictator. She knew her father well enough to feel the hopelessness of her mission. Old Wiggett had never forgiven David for marrying ‘Thusia instead of Mary, and because he would a thousand times have preferred David to Derling as a son-in-law he hated David the more.

“It isn’t only that David would go, father,” Mary said. “If he is sent away we will lose the Hodges and the Martins and the Ollendorfs and old Peter Grimby. I don’t mind those old maid Curlews going, or people like the Hansoms or the Browns, but you know what the Hodges and old Peter Grimby do for the church every year. We thought that if you could get David to take a vacation, explaining to him that it would be a good thing to let everything quiet down – ”

Old Sam Wiggett chuckled.

“Who thought! Ellen never thought of that,” he said.

“I thought of it,” said Mary.

“And he won’t go!” chuckled Wiggett. “I give him credit – he’s a fighter. You women have stirred up the fight in him. I told you to shut up and keep out of this, didn’t I! Why – that Dean has more sense than all of you. You must have thought he was a fool, asking him to go on a vacation while Ellen and all stayed here to stir things up against him. He has brains and that wife of his has spunk – do you know what she told me when I met her on the street this morning!”

Mary did not ask him.

“Told me I wasn’t fit to clean her husband’s shoes!” said Wiggett.

“I hope – ” said Mary.

“Well, you needn’t, because I didn’t,” said her father. “I didn’t say anything. Turned my back on her and walked away.”

“And I suppose you haven’t heard the latest thing she has said!” said Ellen Hardcome bitterly. “She says I have no voice, and that I would not be in the choir if my husband did not have charge of the music.”

“Said that, did she!” chuckled Wiggett.

“She said my upper register was squeaky, if you please!”

‘Thusia had indeed said this. She had said it years before and to a certain Miss Carrol who was then her friend. What Miss Carrol had said about the same voice, she being in the choir with Mrs. Hardcome, does not matter. Miss Carrol had not thought it necessary to tell that to Ellen. With the taking of sides in the present church quarrel all those who were against David racked their brains to recall things ‘Thusia had said that could be used to set anyone against the dominie. There were plenty of such harmless, little confidences to recall. ‘Thusia, during her first married years – and for long after – was still ‘Thusia; she tingled with life and she loved companionship and liked to talk and listen. Every woman expresses her harmless opinions to her friends, but it is easy for the friend, when she becomes an enemy and wishes for recruits, to use this contraband ammunition. It is a woman’s privilege, it seems. The women who, like Rose Hinch, and certain women you know, are accepted by men on an equality of friendship, make the least use of it, for even among children there is no term of opprobrium worse than “tattletale.” It was but natural for yellow-visaged Miss Connerton, for instance, who had once said to ‘Thusia, “Don’t you get tired of Mrs. Hallmeyer’s eternal purple dresses,” and who had accepted ‘Thusia’s “Yes” as a confidential expression of opinion as between one woman and another, to run to Mrs. Hall-meyer, when everyone was against ‘Thusia, and say: “And I suppose you know what she said about you, Mrs. Hallmeyer? That she simply got tired to death of seeing your eternal purple dresses!”

David was fighting for his life, for his life was his work in Riverbank. He was not making the fight alone. Seven or more years of faithful service had won him staunch friends who were glad to fight for him, but the miserable feature of a church quarrel is that – win or lose – the minister must suffer. The two months of the quarrel were the unhappiest of his life, and David made the fight, not because he hoped to remain in Riverbank after it was ended, but because he felt it his duty to stand by what he believed was right, until he should be plainly and actually told to go. The majority of his people, he felt, were with him, but that would make little difference in the final outcome. Although he tried in every way to lessen the bitterness of the quarrel, so that his triumph, if he won, might be the less offensive, he knew his triumph could mean but one thing. A body, nearly half the church, would prepare to leave, and his supporters, having won, would suggest that it would be better for David – who could not keep body and soul together on what the remnant of a church could afford to pay him – and better for the church, that he should resign and carry his triumph elsewhere.

Win or lose David was likely to lose, but until the final moment he did not mean to back down. Had he felt himself in the wrong he would have acknowledged it at once; had he been in the right, and no one but himself concerned, he would have preached a farewell sermon and would have departed. He remained and made the fight because he was loyal to ‘Thusia!

It was, indeed, ‘Thusia against whom the fight was being made, and it was Ellen Hardcome to whom the whole miserable affair was due. It was all brought about by a pair of black prunella gaiters.

VI. THE BLACK PRUNELLA GAITERS

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.