Dominie Dean: A Novel

by Ellis Parker Butler

At that time but few farmers, grown wealthy, moved into town. The town hardly realized, until the lumber business died, how contracted was the circle of its industries. The few men of wealth were all firmly affiliated with one church or another—as were also all the well-to-do—and, with no available new blood, it was inevitable that the numbers in the existing churches should remain almost stationary.

Liberality was not a trait of the wealthy of Riverbank at that day. Like old Sam Wiggett, those with money had had their hard grubbing at first and knew almost too well the value of a dollar. The ministers of the various churches in Riverbank were paid but paltry sums and their salaries were often in arrears.

Had David lost his fight and been driven from Riverbank he might, and probably would, have gone far. He preached well and was still young. It is hardly possible that he would have felt for a new church the affection he felt for the church at Riverbank, and he might have gone from church to church until he was in some excellent metropolitan pulpit. For Riverbank he felt, coming here so young, something of the affection of a man for his birthplace.

In the years following the church quarrel David began to feel the pinch of an inadequate remuneration. After little Roger was born 'Thusia was, for a year, more or less of an invalid, and a maid was a necessity. The additional drains on David's income, slight as they were, meant real hardship when he had with difficulty kept out of debt before. Two years later little Alice was born, and 'Thusia was kept to her bed, an invalid, longer than before. They were sad days for David. For a month 'Thusia hung between life and death, and Mary Derling and Rose Hinch, with old Dr. Benedict, spared neither time nor affection.

Rose Hinch put aside all remunerative calls and nursed 'Thusia night and day. Dr. Benedict was equally faithful, and the women of David's congregation deluged the manse with jellies, flowers, bowls of “floating island” and other dainties, but when 'Thusia was up and about again David faced a debt of nearly three hundred dollars. As soon as 'Thusia was able to stand the strain the church gave David a donation party. Pickles and preserves predominated, but a purse made a part of the donation and left David only some hundred and seventy or eighty dollars in debt.

This is no great sum nor did any of his creditors press him unduly for payment. His bills were small and scattered. He tried to pay them, but in spite of 'Thusia's greatest efforts each salary period saw an unpaid balance seldom smaller, and sometimes slightly greater, than the original debt. This debt worried David and 'Thusia far more than it worried his creditors—who worried not at all—but before long it seemed to become, as such things do, a part of life. David's bills, paid at one end and increased at the other, were never over three months in arrears. In Riverbank at that day this was considered unusually prompt pay. Accounts were usually rendered once a year. But the debt was always there.

The year her boy was three Mary Derling divorced her husband. For some time one of Derling's flirtations had been more serious than Mary had imagined. When she heard the truth she talked the matter over calmly with her father and her husband. All three were of one mind. Derling's father had consistently refused to give the son money and Sam Wiggett had again and again put his hand in his pocket to make good sums lost by Derling in ill-considered business ventures. The truth was that Derling's flirtations were costing too much, and he spent more than he could afford. Wiggett, to be rid of this constant drain, gave Derling a good lump sum and Mary kept the child. The divorce was granted quietly, no one knowing anything about it until it was all over. There was no scandal whatever. Derling went back to Derlingport and was soon forgotten, and Mary resumed her maiden name. More than ever, now, she took part in David's work, and her purse was always at his service for his works of charity. David, Rose Hinch and Mary were a triumvirate working together for the good.

At thirty-seven Dominie Dean was as fully a man as he ever would be. He was fated to cling always to his boyish optimism; never to age into a heavily authoritative head of a flock, with a smooth paunch over which to pass a plump hand as if blessing a satisfactory digestive apparatus. To the last day of his life he remained youthfully slender, and his clear gray eyes and curly hair, even when the latter turned gray, suggested something boyish.

It is inevitable that fifteen years of ministry shall either make or mar the man inside the minister. David Dean had ripened without drying into a hack of church routine. At thirty he had, without being aware of the fact, entered a new period of his ministry, and at thirty-seven, like a pilot who knows his ship, he was no longer prone to excitement over small difficulties. If he was no longer a flash of fire, he was a steadier flame.

In fifteen years David had come to love Riverbank, even to having a half-quizzical and smilingly philosophical love for the Wiggetts, Grims-bys and others who had once been thorns in his flesh. Their simple closefistedness, generosity based on ambition and transparent, harmless, hypocrisy were, after all, human traits, and while not exactly pleasant neither more nor less than part of the world in which David had his work to do. Wherever one went, or whatever work one undertook, there were Wiggetts and Hardcomes and Grimsbys. They were part of life. They were irritants, but it rested with David whether he should feel their irritation as a scratch or a tickle. Until he was thirty he had often smarted; now he smiled.