Part 20 (2/2)

”Robbed him?”

”You took his self-respect. A young man's dignity, at twenty-four, is as precious to him as a woman's modesty. You stole it. Yes; you robbed him. Our Heavenly Father doesn't do that, when He punishes us. We lose our dignity ourselves; but He never robs us of it. Did ye ever notice that? Well; you robbed Samuel. My--my--_my!_” Dr. Lavendar sighed wearily. For, indeed, the matter looked very dark. Here was the moment he had prayed for--the readiness of one or the other of the two men to take the first step towards reconciliation. Such readiness, he had thought, would mean the healing of the dreadful wound, whatever it was; forgiveness on the father's part of some terrible wrong-doing, forgiveness on the son's part of equally terrible hardness of heart.

Instead he found a cruel and ridiculous mortification, made permanent by thirty-two unpardoning years. Here was no sin to command the dreadful dignity of repentance, with its divine response of forgiveness. The very lack of seriousness in the cause made the effect more serious. He looked over at the older man, and shook his head....

How could they pay their debts to each other, this father and son?

Could Benjamin Wright return the self-respect he had stolen away?

Could Samuel offer that filial affection which should have blessed all these empty years? A wickedly ludicrous memory forbade the solemnity of a reconciliation: below any attempt the father might make, there would be a grin, somewhere; below any attempt the son might make, there would be a cringe, somewhere. The only possible hope was in absolute, flat commonplace. Play-writing, as a subject of conversation, was out of the question!

”Benjamin,” he said with agitation, ”I thank G.o.d that you are willing to see Samuel; but you must promise me not to refer to Sam's play. You must promise me this, or the last end of the quarrel will be worse than the first.”

”I haven't said I was willing to see him,” Mr. Wright broke out; ”I'm _not_ willing! Is it likely that I would hanker after an interview?

All I want is to get the boy away from Old Chester; to 'see the world.' His--father ought to sympathize with that! Yes; to get him away, I would even--But if you will tell his--relatives, that in my judgment, he ought to go away, that is all that is necessary.”

”No! You must urge it yourself,” Dr. Lavendar said eagerly. ”Put it on the ground of calf-love, if you want to. I'll tell Samuel you want to get Sam out of town because you're afraid he's falling in love with Mrs. Richie; and you'd like to consult him about it.”

But the old man began a scrabbling retreat. ”No! No!” he said, putting on his hat with shaking hands. ”No, don't tell anybody anything. I'll find some other way out of it. Let it go. Seeing his--relatives is a last resource. If they are so virtuous as to object to plays, I'll try something else. Object?” he repeated, ”Gad-a-mercy! My discipline was successful!” He grinned wickedly.

Dr. Lavendar made no reply. The interview had been a strain, and he got up a little feebly. Benjamin Wright, as he saw him to the door, swore again at some misdemeanor on the part of Simmons, but was not rebuked.

The old minister climbed into his buggy, and told Goliath to ”g'long.”

As he pa.s.sed the Stuffed Animal House, he peered through the little dusty window of the hood; but David was not in sight.

CHAPTER XII

”I think,” said Dr. Lavendar, as he and Goliath came plodding into Old Chester in the May dusk, ”I think I'll go and see w.i.l.l.y. He'll tell me how much Sam's love-making amounts to.”

His mind was on the matter to such an extent that he hardly heard Mary's anxious scolding because he looked tired, but his preoccupation lifted at supper, in the consciousness of how lonely he was without David. He really wanted to get out of the house and leave the loneliness behind him. So after tea he put on his broad-brimmed felt hat and tied a blue m.u.f.fler around his throat--Dr. Lavendar felt the cold a good deal; he said it was because the seasons were changing-- and walked wearily over to Dr. King's house. That talk with Benjamin Wright had told on him.

”Well,” he said, as the doctor's wife opened the door, ”how are you, Martha?”

”Very tired,” said Mrs. King. ”And dear me, Dr. Lavendar, you look tired yourself. You're too old to do so much, sir. Come in and sit down.”

”I'll sit down,” said Dr. Lavendar, dropping into a chair in the parlor; ”but don't flatter yourself, Martha, that you'll ever be as young as I am!” (”He _is_ failing,” Mrs. King told her husband afterwards. ”He gets his words all mixed up. He says 'young' when he means 'old.' Isn't that a sign of something, William?” ”It's a sign of grace,” said the doctor shortly.)

”I want w.i.l.l.y to come over and give my Mary a pill,” Dr. Lavendar explained. ”She is as cross as a bear, and cross people are generally sick people--although I suppose that's Mary's temperament,” he added sighing.

Martha shook her head. ”In my judgment _temperament_ is just another word for temper: I don't believe in making excuses for it. That's a great trick of William's, I'm sorry to say.”

”I should have thought you'd have cured him of it by this time?” Dr.

Lavendar murmured; and then he asked if the doctor was out.

”Oh, yes,” said Mrs. King, dryly; ”w.i.l.l.y always manages to get out in the evening on one excuse or another. You'd think he'd be glad of a restful evening at home with me, sometimes. But no. William's patients need a surprising amount of attention, though his bills don't show it When Mrs. Richie's cook was sick--just as an instance--he went six times to see her. I counted.”

”Well; she got well?”' said Dr. Lavendar.

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