She folded the paper and put it in her purse. “But I can't let you do this,” said David. “I—do you mean you intend to pay for me? I can't permit that, of course. I know how kind you are to suggest it, but I certainly cannot allow any such thing.”
Lucille laughed.
“Please listen, Mr. Dean! Do you think I haven't seen Mr. Burton looking at me with his thousand-dollar eyes! I know what he expects of me; I've heard hints, you may be sure. And no doubt he is right; I ought to give more to the church than I do. And I mean to give more; I meant to give a thousand dollars—subscribe that much annually—and I have been waiting for the trustees to come to me. So you see, don't you, I am doing no more than I intended? Only I choose to give it direct to you.”
David dropped into his easy-chair and leaned his head against his slender hand, as was his unconscious habit when he thought. To get his debts paid would mean everything to him, and, as Lucille explained it, she would be merely giving what she had intended to give. But had he a right to take the sum when she had meant to give it to the church! If she gave it to the church the trustees, as Burton had said, would set aside a part for him as an increase of his salary, but Burton was clear enough in suggesting that two hundred and fifty dollars a year more was what they thought Dean should receive out of whatever Lucille might give. If he took the entire thousand would he not be breaking a tacit agreement made with the banker! One thing was certain, he would not accept charity from Lucille or from anyone; it would be disgraceful. And if the thousand dollars went through the proper channel the most he could expect was a quarter of the sum. If he took it all he would be robbing the church. He raised his head.
“No,” he said firmly, “I can't take it. I can't permit it.”
“Then I give not a cent more to the church than I am giving now!” said Lucille. “You see I have made up my mind. This year I want you to have the thousand, Mr. Dean: Next year, and other years, the trustees can do as they please.”
There could be no doubt that Lucille meant it. She was headstrong and accustomed to overriding opposition: to having her own way. The horns of the dominie's dilemma were two: he must sacrifice his proper pride and take her money—which he could not bring himself to do—or he must lose the church the additional income he had been urged by Burton to try to secure. His duty to his manhood demanded that he refuse Lucille's offer; his duty to his church demanded that he secure her increased monetary support if possible.
“You are kind, and I know your suggestion is kindly meant, Mrs. Hardcome,” he said. “I admit that my debts do worry me—they worry me more than I dare say—but, if your generosity is such as I believe it to be, my case is not hopeless.” He smiled. “May I speak as frankly as you have spoken? Then, I do not find my salary quite enough for my needs, but—except for one creditor—no one is pressing me. I, and not they, am doing the worrying. Well, my trustees have promised me an ample increase as soon as the church income warrants it. To be quite frank, if you should give—as you have suggested—a thousand dollars annually, or even half that sum, my stipend will be increased two hundred and fifty dollars. No, wait one moment! With such economies as I can initiate that would permit me to be quite out of debt in a very few years.”
“If I were in your place,” said Lucille frankly, “I would prefer to get out of debt to-day.”
“But I repeat,” said David, “I cannot take the money.”