[Illustration: Mary 030]
NEITHER Mr. Wiggett nor Mary understood David then. I doubt if Riverbank
ever quite understood him. When he was ten--a thin-faced, large-eyed
child, sitting on the edge of an uncushioned pew in a small, bleak
church, his hands clasped on his knees and his body tense as he hung on
the words of the old dominie in the pulpit above him--he had received
the Call. From that moment his destiny had been fixed. There had been no
splendid Sign--no blaze of glory-light illuminating the dusky interior
of the church, no sun ray turning his golden curls into a halo. His
clasped hands had tightened a little; he had leaned a little further
forward; a long breath, ending in a deep sigh, had raised his thin chest
and David Dean had given himself to his Lord and Master to do His
work while his life should last. Never was a life more absolutely
consecrated.
That the lad Davy should hear the Call was not strange. Religion had
been an all-important part of his parents' lives. The rupture that
wrenched American Presbyterianism into antagonistic parts in the year of
David's birth had been of more vital importance than bread and meat to
David's father.
He never forgave the seceders. To David's mother the rupture had been a
sorrow, as if she had lost a child. In this atmosphere--his father was
an elder--David grew and his faith was fed to him from his birth; it was
part of him, but until the Call came he had not thought of being worthy
to preach. After the Call came he thought of nothing but making himself
worthy.
The eleven following years had been years of preparation. During the
first of these years he spent much time with the old dominie and when
he left school he came under the care of the presbytery of which the
dominie was a member. It was David's father's pride that he was able
to pay David's way through the college and seminary courses. It was his
share in giving Davy to the Lord.
At twenty-one David was a tall youth, slender, thoughtful and delicate.
His hair was almost golden, fine and soft, with a curly forelock. He had
never had a religious doubt. He preached his trial sermon, received his
license and almost immediately his call to Riverbank. This was David,
clean and sure, honest and unafraid, broad-browed and dear-eyed, his
favorite motto: “Keep an even mind under all circumstances.” It was to
protect this young David, clear as crystal and strong as steel, that
the members of the First Presbyterian Church of Riverbank, during those
first weeks, tacitly conspired, and it was against 'Thusia Fragg, the
fluttering, eager and love-incited little butterfly, with a few of
the golden scales already brushed from her wings, that they sought to
protect him.
To her own enormous surprise Mary Wiggett almost immediately fell in
love with David. She was not an emotional girl, and she had long since
decided that when the time came she would marry someone from Derlingport
or St. Louis. She had not thought of falling in love as a necessary
preliminary to marriage. In a vague way she had decided that a husband
from Derlingport or St. Louis would be more desirable because he would
take her to a place where there was more “society” and where certain of
the richer trimmings of life were accepted as reasonable and not frowned
on as extravagances. She had a rather definite idea that her husband
would be someone in the pork or lumber industries, as they were then
the best income producers. She meant to refuse all comers for about five
years, and then begin to consider any who might apply, taking proper
stock of them and proceeding in a sensible, orderly manner. A month
after David came to Riverbank she would have given every man in the pork
and lumber industries for one of David's gentle smiles. She thrilled
with pleasure when he happened to touch her hand. She was thoroughly in
love.
'Thusia, for her part, pursued David unremittingly. She stopped running
the streets, and tried to force her way into the activities of the
church until she was so cruelly snubbed and cold-shouldered that she
wept for anger and gave up the attempt. Then she lay in wait for David.
She sailed down upon him whenever he went upon the streets, seemingly
coming upon him unexpectedly, and falling into step with him. She
ambuscaded him on the main street when he went to the post office for
his mail. She was quite open in her forced attentions, and, of course,
she was talked about. 'Thusia did not care. She had no way of courting
him but by being bold. She fluttered her wings before his eyes whenever
she could. She was a butterfly teasing to be caught.
And David? In spite of Wiggett's warnings and his own he grew fond
of her. You will have to imagine Riverbank as it was then to fully
understand David and 'Thusia: the mean little business street with its
ugly buildings and dust, or mud, ankle deep; the commercial life out
of all proportion to the social life, so that few men thought of aught
beside business; the fair, shady streets of homes with maples already
overarching the streets and the houses of white or brick-red, all with
ample lawns around them. You can see David leave the little white manse
beside the brick church and walk the shady streets, making a pastoral
call or going to the post office. Those pastoral calls! Serious matters
for a young dominie in those days! The dominie was expected to come
like a plumber, with his kit of tools, ready to set to work on a leaky
conscience or a frost-bit soul and his visits were for little else but
soul mending. We saved up our little leaks for him just as we saved up
our little ills for the doctor, and we gave him his fill. We felt we
were remiss if we did not have on hand some real or imaginary reason to
make the dominie kneel beside a chair and pray with us. We expected our
dominie to be a little sad when he visited us, a little gloomy about
things in general; probably to give our otherwise cheerful homes a
churchly gloom.
It was when David came from the main street, where the men could talk
nothing but business, or from a pastoral call, and found himself young
and not at all gloomy at heart under the arching trees, that 'Thusia
would waylay him. She laughed and chattered inconsequently and flirted
with all her little might and joked about herself and everyone else and
even about David--and who else dared joke about the dominie!--until he
smiled in spite of himself. His flock seemed to fall naturally into two
classes--those who felt they had a sort of proprietary interest in him
and those who were a little afraid of him. 'Thusia was not like either.
She was a gleam of unadulterated youth. David began to look forward to
their chance meetings with uneasy but pleasant anticipation. She was
like a bit of merry music brightening but not interrupting his work. He
hardly knew how eagerly he looked forward to his meetings with 'Thusia
until after half his congregation was talking about them.
The autumn saw a great outbreak of moneymaking affairs in the church.
There was a mortgage, of course, and church fairs and festivals and
dinners followed one after another under David's eager guidance and it
was impossible to keep 'Thusia from these. She fluttered about David.
One or two of the young women of the church finally ventured to make
use of 'Thusia, setting her to work as a waitress at one of the dinners
where they were short-handed, but Mary Wiggett soon let them know they
had made a mistake. With a woman's intuition she felt in 'Thusia a
dangerous rival. Even before 'Thusia or David suspected the truth she
saw how great an attraction 'Thusia had for the young dominie. Her own
efforts to attract David were necessarily slower and more conventional.
There was no question that Mary would make an excellent wife for a
minister and Mary did not doubt her ability to win David if given time,
but she feared some sudden flare-up of love that might blind David to
the dignity of his position and throw him into 'Thusia's arms, even if
it threw him out of Riverbank. David, she imagined, would be fearless in
any loyalty.
Had there been no 'Thusia Fragg Mary Wiggett would have been well
satisfied with David's progress toward love. He liked Mary immensely
and let her see it. He made her his lieutenant in all the money-raising
affairs and she rightly believed his affection for her was growing, but
she needed time. 'Thusia, on the other hand, would win in a flash or not
at all. Mary spoke to her father; her mother she felt could give her no
aid. Her mother was a dull woman.
The stern-faced Wiggett listened to her grimly.
He was not surprised to hear she loved David; he was surprised that Mary
should come to him for aid. The actual word “love” was not mentioned; we
avoid it in Riverbank except when speaking of others.
“Father, I like David well enough to marry him, if he asked me,” was
what she said.
Further than this she told him nothing but the truth--that the
respectable members of the church were shocked by the attention David
was paying 'Thusia and that they were talking about it. It was a shame,
she said, that he should lose everyone's respect in that way when the
only trouble was that he did not understand.
“You men can't see it, of course, father,” she said. “You don't
understand what it means, as we do. And we can't speak to Mr. Dean. I
can't speak to him.”
“I'll tell that young man a thing or two!” growled Mr. Wiggett angrily.
“No, not you, father,” Mary begged, and when he looked at her with
surprise she blushed. “Huh!” he said, “why not?”
“I--listen, father! I couldn't bear it if he thought I had sent you. I
should die of shame. If you went to him, he might guess.”
“Well, you want to marry him, don't you!”
“If he wants me. But--yes, I do like him, father.”
“Well, you won't be a starved parson's wife, anyway. You'll have money.”
It was equivalent to another man's hearty good wishes. “Benedict will
talk to him,” he said, and went out to find Benedict.
David had found in old Doctor Benedict a companion and friend. An
old-style family physician, the town's medical man-of-all-work, with a
heart as big as the world and a brain stored with book-lore and native
philosophy, the doctor and David made a strange pair of friends and
loved each other the better for their differences. Once every so often
the doctor had his “periodical,” when he drank until he was stupid.
Once already David, knowing of this weakness and seeing the “period”
approaching, had kept old Benedict talking philosophy until midnight
and, when he grew restless for brandy, had walked the streets with him
until the older man tottered for weariness and had to be fairly lifted
into his bed. When, the next day, Benedict began the postponed spree
David had dragged him to the manse, and had kept him there that
night, locked in the dominie's own bedroom. Benedict took all this
good-naturedly.
He looked on his “periodicals” as something quite apart from himself. He
did not like them, and he did not dislike them. They came, and when they
came he was helpless. They took charge of him and he could not prevent
them, and he refused to mourn over them or let them spoil his good
nature. The greater part of the year he was himself, but when the
“periodical” came he was like a helpless baby tossed by a pair of
all-powerful arms. He could not defend himself; he did not wish to be
carried away, but it was useless to contend. If David wanted to wrestle
with the thing he was welcome. In the meantime David and Benedict
recognized each in the other an intellectual equal and they became fast
friends. Old Sam Wiggett, holding the mortgages on Benedict's house and
on his horse, and on all that was his, did not hesitate to order him to
talk to David.
“Davy,” said the doctor quizzically as he sat in an easy-chair in
David's study, “they tell me you are paying too much attention to 'Thusy
Fragg.”
David turned.
“Arethusia Fragg?” he said. “You're mistaken, Benedict. I'm paying her
no attention.”
“It's the scandal of the church,” drawled Benedict. “Great commotion.
Everybody whispering about it. You walk abroad with her, Davy; you laugh
with her at oyster suppers.” He became serious. “It's being held against
you. A dominie has to walk carefully, Davy. Small minds are staggered by
small faults--by others' small faults.”
“I meet her occasionally,” said David. “I have seen no wrong in that.”
“That's not for me to say,” said Benedict. “Others do. She's a giddy
youngster; a flyaway; a gay young flibbertygibbet. I don't judge her.
I'm telling you what is said, Davy.”
David sat with his long legs crossed, his chin resting in his hand
and his eyes on the spatter-work motto--“Keep an even mind under all
circumstances”--above his desk. He thought of 'Thusia Fragg and her
attraction and of his duty to himself and to his church, considering
everything calmly. He had felt a growing antagonism without
understanding it. As he thought he forgot Benedict. His hand slid
upward, and his fingers entangled themselves in his curly hair. He sat
so for many minutes.
“Thank you, Benedict,” he said at length. “I understand. I am through
with 'Thusia!”
“Mind you,” drawled Benedict, “I say nothing against the girl. I helped
her into the world, Davy. I've helped a lot of them into the world. It
is not for me to help them through it. When I put them in their mothers'
arms my work is done.”
“I know what you mean,” said David. “If her mother had lived 'Thusia
might have been different. But does that concern me, Benedict?”
“It does not,” grinned the old doctor. “How long have you been calling
her 'Thusia, Davy?”
“My first duty is to my church,” said David. “A minister should be above
reproach in the eyes of his people.”
“That hits the nail on the head, fair and square,” said Benedict.
“You're right every time, Davy. How long have you been calling her
'Thusia?”
“I am not right every time, Benedict,” said David, arising and walking
slowly up and down the floor, his hands clasped behind him, “but I am
right in this. You are wrong when you allow yourself, even for a day, to
fall into a state in which you cannot be of use to your sick when they
call for you, and I would be wrong if I let anything turn my people from
me, for they need me continually. My ministry is more important than I
am. If my right hand offended my people I would cut it off. I have been
careless, I have been thoughtless. I have not paused to consider how my
harmless chance meetings with Miss Fragg might affect my work. Benedict,
a young minister's work is hard enough--with his youthfulness as a
handicap--without--”
“Without 'Thusy,” said Benedict.
“Without the added difficulties that come to an unmarried man,” David
substituted. “The sooner I marry the better for me and for my work and
for my people.”
“And the sooner I'll be chased out of this easy-chair for good and all
by your wife,” said Benedict, rising, “so, if that's the way you feel
about it--and I dare say you are right--I'll try a sample of absence
and go around and see how Mrs. Merkle's rheumatism is amusing her. Well,
Davy, invite me to the wedding!”
This was late November and the ice was running heavy in the river
although the channel was not yet frozen over, and for some days there
had been skating on the shore ice where the inward sweep of the shore
left a half moon of quiet water above the levee. When Benedict left him
David dropped into his chair. Ten minutes later his mind was made up and
he drew on his outer coat, put on his hat and gloves and went ont. He
walked briskly up the hill to the Wiggett home, and went in. Mary was
not there; she had gone to the river with her skates. David followed
her.
No doubt you know how the shore ice behaves, freezing at night and
softening again if the day is warm; cracking if the river rises or
falls; leaving, sometimes, a strip of honeycombed ice or a strip of bare
water along the shore until colder weather congeals it. This day was
warm and the sun had power. Here and there, to reach the firmer ice
across the mushy shore ice, planks had been thrown. David stood on
the railroad track that ran along the river edge and looked for Mary
Wiggett. There were a hundred or more skaters, widely scattered, and
David saw Mary Wiggett and 'Thusia almost simultaneously. 'Thusia saw
David.
She was skating arm in arm with some young fellow, and as she saw David
she pulled away from her companion. “Catch me!” she cried and darted
away with her companion darting after her. She was the most graceful
skater Riverbank boasted, and perhaps her first idea was merely to show
David how well she could skate. Suddenly, however, as if she had just
seen David, she waved her muff at him and skated toward him. The young
fellow turned in pursuit, but almost instantly shouted a warning and dug
the edges of his skates into the ice. 'Thusia skated on. Straight toward
the thin, decayed ice she sped, one hand still waving her muff aloft in
signal to David. He started down the bank almost before she reached
the bad ice, for he saw what was going to happen. He heard the ice give
under her skates, saw her throw up her hands, heard her scream, and he
plunged through the mud and into the water. Before anyone could reach
them he had drawn her to the shore and 'Thusia was clinging to him, her
arms dose around him. She was laughing hysterically, but her teeth were
already beginning to chatter. Her skates raised her nearer David's face
than ordinarily, and as the skaters gathered she put up her mouth and
kissed him. Then she fell limp in his arms.
She had not fainted and David knew it was all mere pretense. He knew she
had been in no danger, for his legs were wet only to the knees, and
if 'Thusia was drenched from head to foot it was because she had
deliberately thrown herself into the water. He felt it was all a trick
and he shook her violently as he tried to push her away.
“Stop it!” he cried. “Stop this nonsense!” but even as a dozen men
crowded around them he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the
railway embankment. Below them Mary Wiggett stood, safely back from the
dangerous edge of the ice.
“Get a rig as quickly as you can,” David commanded. “She's not hurt, but
she'll take cold in these wet clothes. Mary Wiggett,” he called, seeing
her in the group on the ice, “I want you to come with us.”
He carried 'Thusia to the street and rested her on a handcar that stood
beside the railway and wrapped her in his greatcoat. The crowd, of
course, followed. David sent a boy to tell Mr. Fragg to hurry home. And
all this while, and while they were waiting for the rig that soon came,
'Thusia continued her pretended faint, and David knew she was shamming.
He lifted her into the buggy. It was then she opened her eyes with a
faint “Where am I?”
“You know well enough,” David answered and turned to Mary Wiggett.
“Come! Get in!” he ordered. “She has been pretending a faint.” David,
who tried to keep an even mind under all circumstances, never quite
understood the reasoning that led him to drag Mary Wiggett into the
affair in this way. He felt vaguely that she was protection; it had
seemed the thing he must do. He was angry with 'Thusia, so angry that he
felt like beating her and he was afraid of himself because even while he
hated her for the trick she had played the clasp of her arms had filled
him with joy. He was afraid of 'Thusia.
Without hesitation or demur Mary clambered into the buggy, and David
helped 'Thusia in and drove the heavy vehicle through the muddy streets
to 'Thusia's door. He lifted her out and carried her into the house and
helped her up the stairs to her room, and there he left her with Mary.
From the sitting room below he could hear Mary moving about. He heard
her come down and put the sadirons on the stove to heat and heard her
mixing some hot drink. When Mr. Fragg reached the house 'Thusia was
tucked between blankets with hot irons at her feet, and Mary came down
as David ended his explanation of the affair.
“I think she'll be all right now,” Mary said. “She has stopped shivering
and is nice and warm. We'll stop for Dr. Benedict, Mr. Fragg, just to
make sure.”
On the way home David asked Mary to marry him. She did not pretend
unwillingness. She was surprised to be asked just then, but she was
happy and she tucked her arm under his affectionately and David clasped
her hand. He was happy, quite happy. They stopped to send Dr. Benedict
to the Fraggs and then David drove Mary home. She held his hand a moment
or two as she stood beside the buggy at her gate.
“You'll come up this evening, David, won't you?” she asked. “Wait,
David, I'll have our man drive you home and take this rig back wherever
it came from,” she added with a pleasing air of new proprietorship; “you
must go straight home and change into something dry. And be sure to come
up this evening.”
“I will,” said David, and she turned away. She turned back again
immediately.
“David,” she said hesitatingly; “about 'Thusia--I feel so sorry for her.
She has no mother and I think lately she has been trying to be good. I
feel as if--”
“Yes,” said David, “I feel that too.”
“Well, then, it will be all right!” said Mary happily. “And remember,
change your clothes as soon as you get home, David Dean!”
When David opened the door of the manse he stood for a minute letting
his happiness have its own way with him. He imagined the little house as
it would be with Mary in it as the mistress and, in addition to the glow
of heart natural to an accepted lover, he felt he had chosen wisely. His
wife would be a help and a refuge; she would be peace and sympathy at
the end of every weary day.
Then he climbed the stairs to change his wet garments as Mary had wisely
ordered.