up at the manse? Why don’t you go up there and take a hand in it, ‘Thusia? Well, Mr. Dean, I’ll see you many times, I hope.”
‘Thusia, all her sauciness gone, stood abashed, and David tried vainly to find a word to ease the embarrassing situation. Mr. Wiggett relieved it by ignoring ‘Thusia utterly.
“Fragg will send your baggage up,” he growled. “We’ll walk. The women will be impatient; they’ve heard the boat whistle. You come with me, Dean, I want to talk to you.”
He turned his back on ‘Thusia and led David away.
“The less you have to do with that girl the better,” were his first words. “That’s for your own good. Hey, Long?”
“My opinion, my opinion exactly!” echoed Mr. Long. “The less the better. Yes, yes!”
“She’s got in with a crowd of fast young fools,” agreed Mr. Hoskins. “Crazy after the men. Fragg ought to take her into the woodshed and use a good stiff shingle on her about once every so often. He lets her run too wild. No sense in it!”
What ‘Thusia needed was a mother to see that her vivacity found a more conventional outlet. There was nothing really wrong with ‘Thusia. She was young and fun-loving and possessed of more spirit than most of the young women of the town. She was amazingly efficient. Had she been a slower girl the housework of her father’s home would have kept her close, but she had the knack of speed. She sped through her housework like a well-oiled machine and, once through with it, she fled from the gloomy, motherless place to find what lively companionship she could. It would have been better for her reputation had she been a sloven, dawdling over her work and then moping away the short leisure at home.
Every small town has girls like ‘Thusia Fragg. You may see them arm in arm at the railway station as the trains pause for a few minutes, ready to chaffer with any “nice-looking” young fellow in a car window. You see them strolling past the local hotel, two or three in a group, ready to fall into step with any young drummer who is willing to leave his chair for a stroll. Some are bad girls, some are on the verge of the precipice of evil, and some, like ‘Thusia, are merely lovers of excitement and not yet aware of the real dangers with which they play.
‘Thusia, running the streets, was in danger of becoming too daring. She knew the town talked about her and she laughed at its gossip. In such a contest the rebel usually loses; in conspiring against smugness she ends by falling into the ranks of immorality. In Riverbank before the Civil War the danger to reputation was even greater than it is now; morality was marked by stricter conventions.
‘Thusia, despite her new dress and hat, did not linger downtown after her meeting with David. She took the teasing of her two girl friends, who made a great joke of her attempt to flirt with the new dominie, good-naturedly, but she left them as soon as she could and walked home. Her face burned with shame as she thought of the surprised glance David had given her at the foot of the gangplank and, as she entered her motherless home, she jerked her hat from her head and angrily threw it the length of the hall. She stood a moment, opening and closing her fists, like an angry animal, and then, characteristically, she giggled. She retrieved her hat, put it on her head and studied herself in the hall mirror. She tried several smiles and satisfied herself that they were charming and then, unhooking her dress as she went, she mounted the stairs. When she was in her room she threw herself on her bed and wept. Her emotions were in a chaos; and out of this came gradually the feeling that all she cared for now was to have those cool gray eyes of David’s look upon her approvingly. Everything she had done in her life seemed to have been deliberately planned to make them disapprove of her. Weighing her handicap calmly but urged by wounded pride, or desire, or love – she did not know which – she set about her pitiful attempt to fascinate David Dean.
The first Sunday that David preached in Riverbank ‘Thusia bedecked herself glowingly and sat in a pew where he could not fail to see her. Since the death of his wife Mr. Fragg had taken to churchgoing, sitting in a pew near the door so that he might slip out in case he heard the whistle of an arriving steamboat, but ‘Thusia chose a pew close under the pulpit. After the service there was the usual informal hand-shaking reception for the new dominie and ‘Thusia waited until the aisles were well cleared. Mr. Wiggett, Mr. Hoskins and one or two other elders and trustees acted as a self-appointed committee to introduce David and, as if intentionally, they built a barrier of their bodies to keep ‘Thusia from him. She waited, leaning against the end of a pew, but the half circle of black coats did not open. As the congregation thinned and David moved toward the door his protectors moved with him. The sexton began closing the windows. The black coats herded David into the vestibule and out upon the broad top step and still ‘Thusia leaned against the pew, but her eyes followed David.
“Come, come! We’ll have to be moving along, dominie,” growled Mr. Wiggett impatiently, as David stopped to receive the congratulations of one of the tireless-tongued old ladies. “Dinner at one, you know.”
“Yes, coming!” said David cheerfully, and he gave the old lady a last shake of the hand. “Now!” he said, and turned.
‘Thusia, pushing between Mr. Wiggett and Mr. Hoskins, came with her hand extended and her face glowing.
“I waited until they were all gone,” she said eagerly. “I wanted to tell you how splendid your sermon was. It was wonderful, Mr. Dean. I’m coming every Sunday – ”
David took her hand. He was glowing with the kindly greetings and praises that had been showered upon him, and his happiness showed in his eyes. He would have beamed on anyone at that moment, and he beamed on ‘Thusia. He said something pleasantly conventional and ‘Thusia chattered on, still holding his hand, although in his general elation he was hardly aware of this and not at all aware that the girl was clinging to his hand so firmly that he could not have drawn it away had he tried. She knew they made a striking picture as they stood on the top step and she stood as dose to him as she could, so that she had to look up and David had to look down. The departing congregation, looking back for a last satisfactory glimpse of their fine new dominie, carried away a picture of David holding ‘Thusia’s hand and looking down into her face.
“Come, come! Dinner’s waiting!” Mr. Wiggett growled impatiently.
“Well, good-by, Mr. Dean,” ‘Thusia exclaimed. “My dinner is waiting, too, and you must not keep me forever, you know. I suppose we’ll see a great deal of each other, anyway. Now – will you please let me have my hand?”
She laughed and David dropped her hand. He blushed. ‘Thusia ran down the steps and David turned to see Mary Wiggett standing in the vestibule door in an attitude best described as insultedly aloof.
Mr. Wiggett’s face was red.
“Her dinner waiting!” he cried. “She’s got to go home and get it before it waits. She’s a forward, street-gadding hussy!”
“Father!” exclaimed his daughter.
“Well, she shan’t come it over the dominie,” he growled. “I’ll speak to Fragg about it.”
David walked ahead with Mary Wiggett. He was no fool. He knew well enough the troubles a young, unmarried minister has in store if he happens to be presentable, and he knew he was not ill-favored. It is not always – except in books – that the leading pillar of the church has a daughter whose last chance of matrimony is the dominie. Mary Wiggett had by no means reached her last chance. She was hardly eighteen – only a year older than ‘Thusia Fragg – and forty young men of Riverbank would have been glad to have married her. She was a little heavier than ‘Thusia, both in mind and body, and a little taller, almost matronly in her development, but she was a splendid girl for all that, and more than good-looking in a satisfying blond way. David
