Part 43

“I can't seem to see anything plain about it,” returned Jim, in a bewildered way. “I always supposed a man had to do something bad to be given a talking to; but it isn't so much that, and I don't bear any malice against them. They are only two women, and they are nervous. What worries me is, they do need things, and they can't get on and be comfortable unless I do for them; but if they are going to feel that way about it, it seems to cut me off from doing, and that does worry me, Edward.”

The other man stamped. “Jim Bennet,” he said, “they have talked, and now I am going to.”

“You, Edward?”

“Yes, I am. It is entirely true what those two women, Susan Adkins and Mrs. Trimmer, said about you. You ARE a door-mat, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for it. A man should be a man, and not a door-mat. It is the worst thing in the world for people to walk over him and trample him. It does them much more harm than it does him. In the end the trampler is much worse off than the trampled upon. Jim Bennet, your being a doormat may cost other people their souls' salvation. You are selfish in the grain to be a door-mat.”

Jim turned pale. His child-like face looked suddenly old with his mental effort to grasp the other's meaning. In fact, he was a child--one of the little ones of the world--although he had lived the span of a man's life. Now one of the hardest problems of the elders of the world was presented to him. “You mean--” he said, faintly.

“I mean, Jim, that for the sake of other people, if not for your own sake, you ought to stop being a door-mat and be a man in this world of men.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to go straight to those nieces of yours and tell them the truth. You know what your wrongs are as well as I do. You know what those two women are as well as I do. They keep the letter of the Ten Commandments--that is right. They attend my church--that is right. They scour the outside of the platter until it is bright enough to blind those people who don't understand them; but inwardly they are petty, ravening wolves of greed and ingratitude. Go and tell them; they don't know themselves. Show them what they are. It is your Christian duty.”

“You don't mean for me to stop doing for them?”

“I certainly do mean just that--for a while, anyway.”

“They can't possibly get along, Edward; they will suffer.”

“They have a little money, haven't they?”

“Only a little in savings-bank. The interest pays their taxes.”

“And you gave them that?”

Jim colored.

“Very well, their taxes are paid for this year; let them use that money. They will not suffer, except in their feelings, and that is where they ought to suffer. Man, you would spoil all the work of the Lord by your selfish tenderness toward sinners!”

“They aren't sinners.”

“Yes, they are--spiritual sinners, the worst kind in the world. Now--”

“You don't mean for me to go now?”

“Yes, I do--now. If you don't go now you never will. Then, afterward, I want you to go home and sit in your best parlor and smoke, and have all your cats in there, too.”

Jim gasped. “But, Edward! Mis' Adkins--”

“I don't care about Mrs. Adkins. She isn't as bad as the rest, but she needs her little lesson, too.”

“Edward, the way that poor woman works to keep the house nice--and she don't like the smell of tobacco smoke.”

“Never mind whether she likes it or not. You smoke.”

“And she don't like cats.”

“Never mind. Now you go.”

Jim stood up. There was a curious change in his rosy, child-like face. There was a species of quickening. He looked at once older and more alert. His friend's words had charged him as with electricity. When he went down the street he looked taller.

Amanda Bennet and Alma Beecher, sitting sewing at their street windows, made this mistake.