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