girth and losing hair. ‘Thusia rather cruelly but exactly expressed him when she told Rose Hinch he was something soft and blond with a gold toothpick. If Mary was ever dissatisfied with him she gave no sign.
Those who had wondered what kind of a minister’s wife flighty, flirty, little ‘Thusia Fragg would make soon decided she made a good one. She can hardly be better described than by saying she sang at her work. David’s meager stipend did not permit the employment of a maid, and ‘Thusia had little enough leisure between meals for anything but cheerful singing at her tasks. She cooked, swept, baked and washed. There were ministers’ wives in Riverbank who were almost as important in church work as their husbands, and this was supposed to be part of their duties. They were expected to lead in all social money-getting affairs, and, in general, to be not merely wives but assistant ministers. If ‘Thusia had attempted this there might have been, even with Mary’s backing, trouble, for every woman in the church remembered that only a short while before ‘Thusia had been an irresponsible, dancing, street-gadding, young harum-scarum of a girl. Her interference would have been resented. With good sense, or good luck, she left this quasi assistant ministry to Mary, who gladly assumed it, and ‘Thusia gave all her time to the pleasanter task of being David’s happy little wife and housekeeper.
David, at the manse gate, was waiting for Rose Hinch. Rose, when she saw David, came on with a brisker step. Rose had become David’s protégée, the first and closest of many that – during his long life – gathered about him, leaning on him for help and sympathy. In return Rose Hinch was always eager to help David in any way she could. She was Riverbank’s first precursor of the trained nurse. David and old Benedict had worried about her future, until David suggested that the old doctor give her what training he could and put her in charge of such of his cases as needed especial care. Rose took up the work eagerly. She lived in a tiny room above a store on the main street. To many in Riverbank she represented all that a trained nurse and a lay Sister of Charity might.
“Well, Rose,” David said, “you seem happy. Is this fine October air getting into your blood too?”
“I suppose that helps,” said Rose, “but the Long boy is so far past the crisis that I’m not needed any longer. I’m so glad he’s getting well; he is such a dear, patient little fellow. That’s why I’m happy, David. And you seem fairly well content with the world, I should judge.”
“I am, Rose!” he answered. “Have you time to see ‘Thusia for a minute or two. I know she wants to see you.”
He held the gate open and Rose entered. David put his hat on one of the gateposts and stood with his arms on the top of the gate, “bathing in beauty,” as he told ‘Thusia later. The sun, where it touched the maple leaves, turned them to flame. Through a gap in the trees he could catch a glimpse of the Mississippi and the varicolored foliage on the Illinois shore, the reds softened to purple by the October haze. For a few minutes he let himself forget his sick and his soul-sore people and his duties, and stood in happy thoughtlessness, breathing October.
Rose came out.
“It’s all settled. I’m coming,” she said, “and, oh, David! I am so glad!”
“We are all glad,” said David.
Thus it happened that no wife ever approached motherhood more happily than motherless little ‘Thusia. With David and kind old Doctor Benedict and gentle, efficient Rose Hinch at hand, and Mary as delighted as if the child was to be her own, and all of them loving her, ‘Thusia did not give a moment to fear. The baby, when it came, was a boy, and Doctor Benedict said it was the finest in the world, and immediately nominated himself the baby’s uncle. He bought the finest solid silver, gold-lined cup to be had in Riverbank and had it engraved, “Davy, Junior, from Uncle Benedict,” with the date. This was more than he did for Mary Derling’s baby, which came a month later. He gave a silver spoon there, one of about forty that lucky infant received from near and far.
‘Thusia was up and about, singing as before, in due time. Rose Hinch remained for the better part of a. month and departed absolutely refusing any compensation. The winter was as happy as any David ever knew. Davy Junior was a strong and fairly well-behaved baby; ‘Thusia was in a state of ecstatic bliss, and in the town all the former opposition to David had been long since forgotten. With the calmness of an older man but with a young man’s energy he went up and down the streets of the town on his comforting errands. He was fitting into his niche in the world with no rough edges, all of them having been worn smooth, and it seemed that it was his lot to remain for the rest of his life dominie of the Presbyterian Church of Riverbank, each year better loved and more helpful.
April and May passed blissfully, but by the end of June an unexpected storm had gathered, and David did not know whether he could remain in Riverbank another month.
Late in May an epidemic of diphtheria appeared in Riverbank, several cases being in David’s Sunday school and the school was closed. Mary, in a panic, fled to Derlingport with her child. She remained nearly a month with her husband’s parents, but by that, time Derlingport was as overrun by the disease as Riverbank had been and conditions were reported better at home; so she came back, bringing the child. She returned to find the church in the throes of one of those violent quarrels that come with all the violence and suddenness of a tropical storm. Her short absence threatened to result in David’s expulsion from the church.
On the last Saturday of June old Sam Wiggett sat at the black mahogany desk in his office studying the columns of a New York commercial journal – it was the year when the lumber situation induced him to let who wished think him a fool and to make his first big purchase of Wisconsin timberlands – when his daughter, Mary Derling, entered. She came sweeping into the office dressed in all the fuss and furbelow of the fashionable young matron of that day, and with her was her cousin, Ellen Hardcome. Sam Wiggett turned.
“Huh! what are you down here for!” he asked. He was never pleased when interrupted at his office. “Where’s the baby!”
“I left him with nurse in the carriage,” said Mary. “Can’t you say good-day to Ellen, father!”
“How are you!” said Mr. Wiggett briefly. Mrs. Hardcome acknowledged the greeting and waited for Mary to proceed.
“Well, father,” said Mary, “this thing simply cannot go on any longer. Something will have to be done. This quarrel is absolutely breaking up the church.”
“Huh!” growled Mr. Wiggett. “What’s happening now!”
“David is going to preach to-morrow,” said Mary dropping into a vacant chair and motioning Ellen to be seated. “After all the trouble we took to get Dr. Hotchkiss to come from Derling-port, and after the ladies offering to pay for a vacation for David out of the fund – ”
“What!” shouted Wiggett, striking the desk a mighty blow with his fist. “Didn’t I tell you you women have no right to use that fund for any such nonsense! That’s money raised to pay on the mortgage. You’ve no right to spend it for vacations for your star-gazing, whipper-snapper preacher. No! Nor for anything else!”
“But, father!” Mary insisted.
“I don’t care anything about your ‘but, father.’ That’s mortgage money. You women ought to have turned it over to the bank long ago. You have no right to keep it. Pay for a vacation! You act like a lot of babies!”
“Father – ”
“Pay for a vacation! Much he needs a vacation! Strong as an ox and healthy as a bull; doesn’t have anything to do the whole year ‘round but potter around town and preach a couple of sermons. It’s you women get these notions into your preachers’ heads. You turn them into a lot of babies.”
