I have spoken thus concerning Rita's feeling about the shooting of Doug Hill to show you how easy it was for her, while sitting beside Williams that placid Sunday afternoon, to break in upon his interesting conversation with the irrelevant remark:—
"I once shot a man near this spot."
For a moment or two one might have supposed she had just shot Williams. He sprang to his feet as if he intended to run from her, but at once resumed his place, saying:—
"Miss Bays, your humor always surprises me. It takes me unawares. Of course you are jesting."
"Indeed, I am not. I have told you the truth. You will hear it sooner or later if you remain on Blue. It is the one great piece of neighborhood history since the Indians left. It is nothing to boast of. I simply state it as a fact,—a lamentable fact, I suppose I should say. But I don't feel that way about it at all."
"Did you kill him?" asked the astonished Bostonian.
"No, I'm glad to say he lived; but that was not my fault. I tried to kill him. He now lives in Illinois."
Williams looked at her doubtingly, and still feared she was hoaxing him. He could not bring himself to believe there dwelt within the breast of the gentle girl beside him a spirit that would give her strength to do such a deed under any conditions. Never had he met a woman in whom the adorable feminine weaknesses were more pronounced. She was a coward. He had seen her run, screaming in genuine fright, from a ground squirrel. She was meek and unresisting, to the point of weakness. He had seen her endure unprovoked anger and undeserved rebuke from her mother, and intolerable slights from Tom, that would surely have aroused retaliation had there been a spark of combativeness in her gentle heart. That she was tender and loving could be seen in every glance of her eyes, in every feature of her face, in every tone of her soft, musical voice. Surely, thought Williams, the girl could not kill a mouse. Where, then, would she find strength to kill a man? But she told him, in meagre outline, her story, and he learned that a great, self-controlled, modest strength nestled side by side with ineffable gentleness in the heart of this young girl; and that was the moment of Roger Williams's undoing, and the beginning of Rita's woe. Prior to that moment he had believed himself her superior; but, much to his surprise, he found that Roger occupied second place in his own esteem, while a simple country girl, who had never been anywhere but to church, a Fourth of July picnic, and one church social, with his full consent quietly occupied first. This girl, he discovered, was a living example of what unassisted nature can do when she tries. All this change in Williams had been wrought in an instant when he learned that the girl had shot a man. She was the only woman of his acquaintance who could boast that distinction.
What was the mental or moral process that had led him to his conclusions? We all know there is a fascination about those who have lived through a moment of terrible ordeal and have been equal to its demands. But do we know by what process their force operates upon us? We are fascinated by a noted duellist who has killed his score of men. We are drawn by a certain charm that lurks in his iron nerve and gleams from his cold eyes. The toreador has his way with the Spanish dons and señoritas alike. The high-rope dancer and the trapeze girl attract us by a subtle spell. Is it an unlabelled force in nature? I can but ask the question. I do not pretend to answer.
Whatever the force may be, Rita possessed it; and, linked with her gentleness and beauty, its charm was irresistible.
Here, at last, was the rich man from the city who could give Rita the fine mansion, carriages, and servants she deserved. Now that these great benefactions were at her feet, would Dic be as generous as when he told Billy Little that Rita was not for him, but for one who could give her these? Would he unselfishly forego his claim to make her great, and perhaps happy? Great love in a great heart has often done as much, permitting the world to know nothing of the sacrifice. I have known a case where even the supposed beneficiary was in ignorance of the real motive. Perhaps Billy Little could have given us light upon a similar question, and perhaps the beneficiary did not benefit by the mistaken generosity, save in the poor matter of gold and worldly eminence; and perhaps it brought years of dull heartache to both beneficiary and benefactor, together with hours of longing and conscience-born shame upon two sinless hearts.
After Rita had told her story, Roger's chatty style of conversation suddenly ceased. He made greater efforts to please than before, but the effort seemed to impair his power of pleasing. Rita, longing to be alone, had resolved many times to return to the house, but before acting upon that resolve she heard a voice calling, "Rita!" and a moment afterward a pair of bright blue eyes, a dimpled rosy face, and a plump little form constructed upon the partridge model came in sight and suddenly halted.
"Oh, excuse me," said our little wood-nymph friend, Sukey Yates. "I did not know I was intruding. Your mother said you had come in this direction, and I followed."
"You are not intruding," replied Rita. "Come and sit by me. Mr. Williams, Miss Yates."
Miss Yates bowed and blushed, stammered a word or two, and sat by Rita on the rocky bench. She was silent and shy for a moment, but Williams easily loosened her tongue and she went off like a magpie. Billy used to say that Sukey was the modern incarnation of the ancient and immortal "Chatterbox."
After Sukey's arrival, Rita could be alone, and an hour passed before she returned to the house.
That evening Billy Little took supper with Mrs. Bays, and Rita, considering Williams her father's guest, spent most of the evening on the sycamore log with the bachelor heart.
"Dic gave me the ring again," she said, holding out her hand for inspection. Billy took the hand and held it while he said:—
"It's pretty there—pretty, pretty."
"Yes," she responded, looking at the back of her hand, "it's very pretty. It was good of you—but you need not be frightened; I'm not going to thank you. Where do you suppose he is at this moment?"
"I don't know," answered Billy. "I suppose he's between Pittsburg and New York."
"I had a letter from him at Pittsburg two weeks ago," said Rita; "but I have heard nothing since. His work must be very hard. He has no time to think of me."
"He probably finds a moment now and then for that purpose," laughed Billy.
"Oh, I don't mean that he doesn't think of me! Of course he does that all the time. I mean that he must have little time for writing."
"You must feel very sure of him when you say he thinks of you all the time. How often have you thought of him since he left?" asked Billy.
"Once," replied the girl, smiling and blushing.
"Do you mean all the time?" queried Billy.
She nodded her head. "Yes, all the time. Oh, Billy Little, you won't mind if I tell you about it, will you? I must speak—and there is no one else."
"What is it you want to say, Rita?" he asked softly.
"I hardly know—perhaps it is the great change that has taken place within me since the night of Scott's social and the afternoon I shot Doug Hill. I seem to be hundreds of years older. I must have been a child before that night."
"You are a child now, Rita."
"Oh, no," she replied, "trouble matures one."
"But you are not in trouble?"
"N-o—" she answered hesitatingly, "but—but this is what I want to say. Tell me, Billy Little, do you think anything can come between Dic and me? That is the thought that haunts me all the time and makes me unhappy."
"Do you feel sure of Dic?" asked Billy.
"Indeed, I do," she replied; "I am as sure of him as I am of myself."
"How about that fellow in there?" asked Billy, pointing toward the house with his thumb.
"How? In what way?" inquired the girl.
"Don't you find him interesting?" asked Billy.
For reply she laughed softly. The question was not worth answering. The bachelor heart had felt a strong twinge of jealousy on Williams's account, because it knew that with wealth, an attractive person, and full knowledge of the world, Williams would, in the long run, prove a dangerous rival to any man who was not upon the field. The fact that Rita dismissed him with a laugh did not entirely reassure the bachelor heart. It told only what was already known, that she loved Dic with all the intensity of her nature. But Billy also knew that many a girl with such a love in her heart for one man had married another. Rita, he feared, could not stand against the domineering will of her mother; and, should Williams ply his suit, Billy felt sure he would have a stubborn, potent ally in the hard Chief Justice. There was, of course, an "if," but it might easily be turned into a terrible "is"—terrible for Billy, Dic, and Rita. Billy had grown used to the thought that Rita would some day become Dic's wife, and after the first spasm of pain the thought had brought joy; but any other man than Dic was a different proposition, and Billy's jealousy was easily and painfully aroused. He endured a species of vicarious suffering while Dic was not present to suffer for himself. Soon he began to long for Dic's return that he might do his own suffering.
Billy's question concerning Williams had crystallized Rita's feeling that the "fellow in there" was "making up" to her, and when she returned to the house that evening, she had few words for Roger.
Monday Rita was unusually industrious during the day, but the evening seemed long. She was not uncivil to her father's guest, but she did not sit by him on the edge of the porch as she had done upon the first evening of his visit. He frequently came to her side, but she as frequently made an adroit excuse to leave him. She did not dislike him, but she had found him growing too attentive. This girl was honest from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and longed to let Williams understand that she was the property of another man to whom she would be true in the spirit and in the letter.
Tuesday morning the guests departed. Mrs. Bays urgently invited Williams to return, and he, despite Rita's silence, assured his hostess that he would accept her invitation. The Indianapolis project had been agreed upon, provided Bays could raise the money. If that could be done, the new firm would begin operations January first. That afternoon Rita went to the step-off and looked the Indianapolis situation in the face. It stared back at her without blinking, and she could evolve no plans to evade it. Dic would return in November—centuries off—and she felt sure he would bring help. Until then, Indianapolis, with the figures of her mother and Williams in the background, loomed ominously before her vision.
Williams's second visit was made ostensibly to Rita's father. The third, two weeks later, was made openly to her father's daughter. It was preceded by an ominous letter to Rita requesting the privilege of making the visit to her. Rita wished to answer at once by telling him that she could not receive him, but Rita's mother thought differently.
"Say to him," commanded Mrs. Bays, "that you will be pleased to see him. He is a fine young man with a true religious nature. I find that he has been brought up by a God-fearing mother. I would not have you receive him because he is rich, but that fact is nothing against him. I can't for the life of me understand what he sees in you, but if he—" she stopped speaking, and her abrupt silence was more emphatic than any words could have been. Rita saw at once the drift of her mother's intentions and trembled.
"But I would not be pleased to see him, mother," the girl responded pleadingly; "and if I write to him that I would, I should be telling a lie."
"I tell a lie," cried the stern old woman in apparent anguish. "Oh, my heart!" She sank to a chair, and gasping between her words, continued, "Oh, that I should have lived to be told by my own child that I'm a liar!" Her head fell backward, and one would have supposed dissolution near. Mr. Bays ran to fetch a cup of water, and Rita stood in deep trouble by her mother's side fanning her. "A liar! a liar!" moaned the dying woman.
"I did not say that, mother. I said—"
"A liar! yes, I'm a liar. My own daughter that I have loved and cherished in my own bosom, and have toiled and suffered for all my life, says I'm a liar."
"Mother, I protest, dear mother, hear me," began Rita, but mother interrupted her by closing her eyes and supposedly her ears as if she were on the point of passing over. The only signs of life in the old woman were her gasps for breath. The girl, who had no deceit in her heart, could not recognize it in others, least of all was she able to see it in her own mother, whose transcendent virtues had been dinned into her ears ever since she had possessed those useful organs. Out of her confiding trustfulness came a deadly fear for her mother's life. She fell on her knees and cried: "Forgive me, mother dear, forgive me. I was wrong. I'll write whatever you wish."
This surrender, I know, was weak in our heroine; but her words restored her mother to life and health, and Rita rejoiced that she had seen her duty and had performed it in time.
Justice was soon again in equilibrium, and Rita, amid a flood of tears, wrote to Williams, "I shall be pleased to see you," and he came.
She did not treat him cordially, though she was not uncivil, and Williams thought her reticence was due to modesty,—a mistake frequently made by self-sufficient men. The girl felt that she was bound by her letter, and that she could not in justice mistreat him. It was by her invitation he had come. He could not know that she had been forced to write the letter, and she could not blame him for acting upon it. She was relieved that he attempted no flattery, and felt that surely her lack of cordiality would prevent another visit. But she was mistaken. He was not a man easily rebuffed.
A fortnight later Mrs. Bays announced to her daughter the receipt of a letter from Mr. Williams, stating that he would be on hand next Saturday evening.
"He is trying to induce his father to loan us the money," said Mrs. Bays, "and your father and I want you to be particularly kind to him. Your father and I have suffered and worked and toiled for you all your life. Now you can help us, and you shall do so."
"Mother, I can't receive him. I can't talk to him. It will be wicked. It would not be honest; I can't, I can't," sobbed poor Rita. "I don't know much, but I know it is wrong for me to receive visits from Mr. Williams when there can be nothing between—between—"
"Why can't there be anything between you and Williams, girl? Why?" demanded Mrs. Bays.
"There are many reasons, mother," returned the weeping girl, "even if it were not for Dic—"
"Dic!" screamed the old woman, and an attack of heart trouble at once ensued, when Rita was again called upon to save her mother's life.
Thus Williams came the third time to visit Rita, and showed his ignorance of womankind by proposing marriage to a girl who was unwilling to listen. He was promptly but politely rejected, and won the girl's contempt by asking for her friendship if he could not have her love. The friendship, of course, was readily granted. She was eager to give that much to all the world.
"I hope you will not speak of this, even to your father or mother," said Williams. "Let it be hereafter as if I had never spoken. I regret that I did speak."
Rita gladly consented to comply with his request, since she was certain heart trouble would ensue, with probably fatal results, should her mother learn that she had refused the young man with the true religious nature.
Williams adroitly regained his ground by exciting Rita's ever ready sympathy, and hoped to remain in the battle upon the plane of friendship until another and more favorable opportunity should arise for a successful attack. His was a tenacious nature that held to a purpose by hook or by crook till victory crowned his efforts or defeat was absolute.
Williams continued to visit Rita, and Dic did not return till Christmas. During the last month of waiting the girl's patient longing was piteous to behold. To see her brought grief to Billy's heart, but it angered the Chief Justice.
Dic had written that he would be home by the middle of November, and Rita had counted the days, even the hours, up to that time; but when he did not arrive as expected, she had not even the poor comfort of computing time, for she did not know when to expect him. Each day of longing and fear ended in disappointment and tears, until at last, on the day before Christmas, she heard from the lips of Sukey Yates that Dic was at home. There was a touch of disappointment in receiving the news from Sukey, but the news was so welcome that she was glad to have it from any one.
Sukey had ridden over to see Rita. "Why, haven't you seen him yet?" cried the dimpler, in surprise. "I supposed, of course, he would come here first—before seeing me. Why, I'm quite proud."
"No," returned Rita; "I have not seen him."
"He'll come this evening, I'm sure," said Sukey, patronizingly. "I have company to-night. He's looking well, though he was sick for three or four weeks at an inn near Wheeling. His illness caused the delay in getting home. I just thought he never would come, didn't you?"
Rita was too happy to be disturbed by insinuations of any kind, and although she would have liked to be the first person to see Dic, she paid no heed to Sukey's suggestive remarks.
"He's as handsome as ever," continued Sukey, "and has a mustache. But you will see him for yourself this evening. Good-by. I must be going. Now come over real soon."
"I will," answered Rita, and Sukey left her musing happily upon the hearth log.
Mr. Bays had been in Indianapolis for several days. He had not raised the three thousand dollars, Williams, Sr., being at that time short of money. Mrs. Bays and Tom had that evening driven to town to meet the nominal head of the house. It was two o'clock when Sukey left Rita gazing into the fire and computing the minutes till evening, when she knew Dic would be with her. He might possibly come over for supper.
The weather was cold, and snow had been falling since noon. The sycamore log was under the snow, and she did not hope to have Dic to herself; but to have him at all would be joy sufficient, and she would dream of him until he should come. While dreaming, she turned her face toward the window to watch the falling snow. She did not see the snow, but instead saw a man. She did not scream with delight, as I suppose she should have done; she simply rose to her feet and waited in the fireplace till the door opened and Dic walked in. She did not go to him, but stood motionless till he came to her.
"Are you not glad to see me, Rita?" he asked. He could not see her eyes in the dark room, or he would have had no need to ask. "Are you not glad?" he repeated. She did not answer, but taking his face between her hands drew it down to hers with infinite tenderness and passion. Then, with her arms about his neck, she spoke the one word, "Glad?" and Dic knew.
After she had uttered the big word of one syllable, she buried her face on his breast and began to weep.
"Don't cry, Rita," pleaded Dic, "don't cry. I can't bear it."
"Ah, but let me cry for one little moment," she begged. "It is better than laughing, and it helps me so much." There was, of course, but one answer, and Dic, turning up her tear-stained face, replied eloquently.
After a chaotic period of several minutes they took their childhood's place upon the hearth log within the warm, bright fireplace. Dic stirred the fire, and the girl, nestling beside him, said:—
"Now tell me everything."
"Where shall I begin?" asked Dic; and after a pause in which to find a starting-point, he said:—
"I have brought you a little present. I wanted to keep it till to-morrow—Christmas—but I find I cannot." He produced a small gold watch with the word "Rita" engraved upon the lid. Rita was delighted; but after a moment or two of admiration she repeated her request.
Dic rapidly ran over the events of his trip. He had brought home twenty-six hundred dollars, and the gold was at that moment in Billy Little's iron-box. Of the wonders he had seen he would tell her at leisure. He had received her three letters, and had them in his pocket in a small leather case purchased expressly to hold them. They had never left his person. He had been ill at an inn near Wheeling, and was "out of his head" for three weeks; hence his failure to write during that time.
"Yes, Sukey told me you had been ill. I was sorry to learn it. Especially—especially from her," said the girl, with eyes bent demurely upon the hearth.
"Why from her?" asked Dic.
"Well, from any one," she replied. "I hoped you would come to see me first. You see, I am a very exacting, jealous, disagreeable person, Dic, and I wanted you to see me and tell me everything before you should go to see any one else."
"Indeed, I would," he returned. "I have come here first."
"Did you not go around by Sukey's and see her on your way home?" Rita asked.
"I did not," replied Dic. "She was in town and rode with mother and me as far as the Yates cross-path. She heard me telling mother I had been ill."
Dic did not tell Rita that Sukey had whispered to him in Billy Little's store that she, Sukey, had been going to town every day during the last fortnight in the hope that she might be the first one to see him, and that she was so wild with joy at his return that she could easily find it in her heart to kiss him right then and there in full view of a large and appreciative audience; and that if he would come over Christmas night when the folks were going to Marion, she would remain at home and—and would he come? Dic did not mention these small matters, and, in fact, had forgotten what Sukey had said, not caring a baw-bee how often she had gone to meet him or any one else, and having no intention to accept her hospitality Christmas night. Sukey's words had, for a moment, tickled his vanity,—an easy task for a pretty woman with any man,—but they had gone no deeper than his vanity, which, in Dic's case, was not very deep.
DIC LENDS MONEY GRATIS
CHAPTER IX
Dic Lends Money Gratis
Such an hour as our young friends spent upon the ciphering log would amply compensate for the trouble of living a very long life. "Everything," as Rita had asked, was told volubly, until Dic, perhaps by accident, clasped Rita's hand. His failure to do so earlier in the afternoon had been an oversight; but after the oversight had been corrected, comparative silence and watching the fire from the ciphering log proved a sufficiently pleasant pastime, and amply good enough for them. Good enough! I hope they have fireplaces and ciphering logs, soft, magnetic hands, and eloquent silence in paradise, else the place will surely be a failure.
Snow was falling furiously, and dark winter clouds obscured the sinking sun, bringing night before its time; and so it happened that Rita did not see her mother pass the window. The room was dark, save in the fireplace where Rita and Dic were sitting, illumined by the glow of hickory embers, and occasionally by a flickering flame that spluttered from the half-burned back-log. Unexpected and undesired, Mrs. Bays, followed closely by our friend Williams, entered through the front door. Dic sprang to his feet, but he was too slow by several seconds, and the newcomers had ample opportunity to observe his strict attention to the business in hand. Mrs. Bays bowed stiffly to Dic, and walked to the bed, where she deposited her wraps.
Williams approached Rita, who was still seated in the fireplace. She rose and accepted his proffered hand, forgetting in her confusion to introduce Dic. Roger's self-composure came to his relief.
"This must be Mr. Bright," said he, holding out his hand to Dic. "I have heard a great deal of you from Miss Bays during the last four months. We heard in town that you had returned. Since Rita will not introduce me, I will perform that duty for myself. I am Mr. Williams."
"How do you do," said Dic, as he took Roger's hand.
"I am delighted to meet you," said Williams, which, as we know, was a polite fiction. Dic had no especial occasion to dispute Williams's statement, but for some undefined reason he doubted its truth. He did not, however, doubt his own feelings, but knew that he was not glad to meet Williams. The words, "I have heard a great deal of you from Miss Bays during the last four months," had so startled him that he could think of nothing else. After the narrative of his own adventures, he had, in imitation of Rita, asked her to tell him "everything"; but the name of Williams, her four-months' friend, had not been mentioned. Dic could not know that the girl had forgotten Williams's very existence in the moment of her joy. Her forgetfulness was the best evidence that Williams was nothing to her; but, I confess, her failure to speak of him had an ugly appearance. Williams turned to Rita, and, with a feeling of satisfaction because Dic was present, handed her a small package, saying:—
"I have brought you a little Christmas gift."
Rita hesitatingly accepted the package with a whispered "Thank you," and Mrs. Bays stepped to her side, exclaiming:—
"Ah, how kind of you, Mr. Williams."
Rita, Mrs. Bays, and Williams were facing the fire, and Dic stood back in the shadow of the room. A deep, black shadow it was to Dic.
Mrs. Bays, taking the package from Rita's hand, opened it; and there, nestling in a bed of blue velvet, was a tiny watch, rich with jewels, and far more beautiful than the one Dic had brought from New York. Encircling the watch were many folds of a massive gold chain. Mrs. Bays held the watch up to the light of the firelight, and Dic, with an aching sensation in the region of his heart, saw its richness at a glance. He knew at once that the giver must be a man of wealth; and when Mrs. Bays delightedly threw the gold chain over Rita's head, and placed the watch in her unresisting hand, he remarked that he must be going. Poor, terrified Rita did not hear Dic's words. Receiving no reply, he took his hat from the floor where he had dropped it on entering the room several centuries before, opened the door, and walked out.
All that I have narrated as taking place after Williams entered upon the scene occurred within the space of two or three minutes, and Rita first learned that Dic was going when she heard the door close.
"Dic!" she cried, and started to follow him, but her mother caught her wrist and said sternly:—
"Stay here, Rita. Don't go to the door."
"But, mother—"
"Stay here, I command you," and Rita did not go to the door. Dic met Mr. Bays at the gate, paused for a word of greeting, and plunged into the snow-covered forest, while the words "during the last four months" rang in his ears with a din that was almost maddening.
"She might have told me," he muttered, speaking as if to the storm. "While I have been thinking of her every moment, she has been listening to him. But her letters were full of love. She surely loved me when I met her two hours ago. No woman could feign love so perfectly. She must love me. I can't believe otherwise. I will see her again to-night and she will explain all, I am sure. There is no deceit in her." His returning confidence eased, though it did not cure, his pain. It substituted another after a little time—suspense. It was not in his nature to brook suspense, and he determined again and again to see Rita that evening.
But his suspense was ended without seeing Rita. When he reached home he found Sukey, blushing and dimpling, before the fire, talking to his mother.
"Been over to see Rita?" she asked, parting her moist, red lips in a smile, showing a gleam of her little, white teeth, and dimpling exquisitely.
"Yes," answered Dic, laconically.
"Thought maybe you would stay for supper," she continued.
"No," replied Dic.
"Perhaps the other fellow was there," remarked Sukey, shrugging her plump shoulders and laughing softly. Dic did not reply, but drew a chair to the hearth.
"Guess they're to be married soon," volunteered Sukey. "He has been coming Saturdays and staying over Sunday ever since you left. Guess he waited for you to get out of the way. I think he's so handsome. Met him one Sunday afternoon at the step-off. I went over to see Rita, and her mother said she had gone to take a walk with Mr. Williams in that direction after dinner. I knew they would be at the step-off; it's such a lonely place. He lives in Boston, and they say he's enormously rich." During the long pause that followed Dic found himself entirely relieved of suspense. There was certainty to his heart's content. He did not show his pain; and much to her joy Sukey concluded that Dic did not care anything about the relations between Williams and Rita.
"Rita showed me the ring he gave her," continued Sukey. Dic winced, but controlled himself. It was his ring that Sukey had seen on Rita's finger, but Dic did not know that.
"Some folks envy her," observed the dimpler, staring in revery at the fire. "She'll have a fine house, servants, and carriages"—Dic remembered having used those fatal words himself—"and will live in Boston; but for myself—well, I never intend to marry, but if I do I'll take one of the boys around here, or I'll die single. The boys here are plenty good enough for me."
The big, blue eyes, covered by downcast lashes, were carefully examining a pair of plump, little, brown hands resting in her lap, but after a pause she flashed a hurried glance upon Dic, which he did not see.
When a woman cruelly wounds a man as Rita had wounded Dic, the first remedy that suggests itself to the normal masculine mind is another woman, and the remedy is usually effective. There may not be as good fish in the sea as the one he wants, but good fish there are, in great numbers. Balm of Gilead doubtless has curative qualities; but for a sore, jealous, aching, masculine heart I would every time recommend the fish of the sea.
Sukey, upon Mrs. Bright's invitation, remained for supper, and Dic, of course, was compelled to take her home. Upon arrival at the Yates mansion, Sukey invited Dic to enter. Dic declined. She drew off her mittens and took his hand.
"Why," she said, "your hands are like ice; you must come in and warm them. Please do," so Dic hitched his horse under a straw-covered shed and went in with the remedy. One might have travelled far and wide before finding a more pleasant remedy than Sukey; but Dic's ailments were beyond cure, and Sukey's smiles might as well have been wasted upon her brother snowman in the adjacent field.
Soon after Dic's arrival, all the family, save Sukey, adjourned to the kitchen, leaving the girl and her "company" to themselves, after the dangerous manner of the times.
If any member of the family should remain in the room where the young lady of the house was entertaining a friend, the visitor would consider himself persona non grata, and would come never again. Of course the Bays family had never retired before Dic; but he had always visited Tom, not Rita.
The most unendurable part of Williams's visits to Rita was the fact that they were made to her, and that she was compelled to sit alone with him through the long evenings, talking as best she could to one man and longing for another. When that state of affairs exists, and the woman happens to be a wife, the time soon comes when she sighs for the pleasures of purgatory; yet we all know some poor woman who meets the wrong man every day and gives him herself and her life because God, in His inscrutable wisdom, has permitted a terrible mistake. To this bondage would Rita's mother sell her.
Dic did not remain long with the tempting little remedy. While his hand was on the latch she detained him with many questions, and danced about him in pretty impatience.
"Why do you go?" she asked poutingly.
"You said Bob Kaster was coming," replied Dic.
"Oh, well, you stay and I'll send him about his business quickly enough," she returned.
"Would you, Sukey?" asked Dic, laughing.
"Indeed, I will," she responded, "or any one else, if you will stay."
She took his hand again, and, leaning against him, smiled pleadingly into his face. Her smiles were as sweet and enticing as she or any other girl could make. There were no redder lips, no whiter teeth, nor prettier dimples than Sukey's on all Blue River or any other river, and there could be no prettier, more tempting picture than this pouting little nymph who was pleading with our Joseph not to run away. But Dic, not caring to remain, hurriedly closed the door and went out into the comforting storm. After he had gone Sukey went to the ciphering log and sat gazing meditatively into the fire. Vexation and disappointment alternately held possession of her soul; but Dic was more attractive to her because he was unattainable, and she imagined herself greatly injured and deeply in love. She may have imagined the truth; but Sukey, though small in herself, had a large, comprehensive heart wherein several admirers might be accommodated without overtaxing its capacity, and soon she was comforting herself with Bob Kaster.
There was little rest for Dic that night. Had he been able to penetrate darkness and log walls, and could he have seen Rita sobbing with her face buried in her pillow, he might have slept soundly. But darkness and log walls are not to be penetrated by ordinary eyes.
Riding home from Sukey's, Dic thought he had learned to hate Rita. He swore mighty oaths that he would never look upon her face again. But when he had rested a little time in bed he recalled her fair face, her gentleness, her honesty, and her thousand perfections. He remembered the small hand he had held so tenderly a few hours since. Its magnetic touch, soft as the hand of a duchess, still tingled through his nerves. With these memories came an anguish that beat down his pride, and, like Rita, he clasped his hands over his head, turned his face to his pillow, and alas! that I should say it of a strong man, wept bitter, scalding tears.
Do the real griefs of life come with age? If Dic should live till his years outnumbered those of Methuselah, no pain could ever come to him worthy of mention compared to this. It awakened him to the quality and quantity of his love. It seemed that he had loved her ever since she lisped his name and clung to his finger in tottering babyhood. He looked back over the years and failed to see one moment in all the myriads of moments when he did not believe himself first in her heart as she had always been first in his; and now, after he had waited patiently, and after she, out of her own full heart, had confessed her woman's love, after she had given him herself in abject, sweet surrender, and had taken him for her own, the thought of her perfidy was torture to him. Then came again like a soothing balm the young memory of their last meeting. He recalled and weighed every word, act, and look. Surely, he thought, no woman could feign the love she had shown for him. She had not even tried to show her love. It had been irrepressible. Why should she wish to feign a love she did not feel? There was nothing she could gain by deceit. But upon the heels of this slight hope came that incontestable fact,—Williams. Dic could see her sitting with the stranger as she had sat with himself at the step-off. Williams had been coming for four months. She might be in his arms at that moment—the hour was still early—before the old familiar fireplace, while the family were in the kitchen. He could not endure the picture he had conjured, so he rose from his bed, dressed, stole softly from the house, and walked through the winter storm down the river to Bays's. Feeling like a thief, he crept to the window. The night being cold, the fire had not been banked, but threw its glow out into the room; and Dic's heart leaped for joy when he saw the room was empty. At that same moment Rita was in her own room, not twenty feet away from him, sobbing on her pillow and wishing she were dead.
Dic's discovery of the empty room had no real significance, but it seemed a good omen, and he went home and slept.
Rita did not sleep. She knew the first step had been taken to separate her from Dic. She feared the separation was really effected. She had offended this manly, patient lover so frequently that surely, she thought, he would not forgive her this last and greatest insult. She upbraided herself for having, through stupidity and cowardice, allowed him to leave her. He had belonged to her for years; and the sweet thought that she belonged to him, and that it was her God-given privilege to give herself to him and to no other, pressed upon her heart, and she cried out in the darkness: "I will not give him up! I will not! If he will forgive me, I will fall upon my knees and beg him to try me once again."
Christmas was a long, wretched day for Dic. What it was to Rita you may easily surmise. Early after supper Dic walked over to see Sukey, and his coming filled that young lady's ardent little soul with delight. His reasons for going would be hard to define. Perhaps his chief motive was the hope of running away from himself, and the possibility of hearing another budget of unwelcome news concerning Rita and Williams. He dreaded to hear it; but he longed to know all there was to be known, and he felt sure Sukey had exhaustive knowledge on the subject, and would be ready to impart it upon invitation.
He had been sitting with Sukey half an hour when Tom Bays walked in. Thomas, of course, could not remain when he found the field occupied; and much to Dic's regret and Sukey's delight he took his departure, after a visit of ten minutes. Dic urged him to remain, saying that he was going soon, and Sukey added, "Yes, won't you stay?" But she was far from enthusiastic, and Thomas went home with disappointment in his heart and profanity on his lips.
When Tom entered the room where Rita was doing her best to entertain Williams, she said, "I thought you were going to see Sukey?"
"Dic's there," answered Tom, and Rita's white face grew whiter.
Tom started toward the back door on his way to the kitchen, where his father and mother were sitting, and Rita said, pleadingly:—
"Don't go, Tom; stay here with us. Please do." She forgot Williams and continued: "Please, brother. I don't ask much of you. This is a little thing to do for me. Please stay here," but brother laughed and went to the kitchen without so much as answering her.
When the door closed on Tom, Rita stood for a moment in front of the fireplace, and, covering her face with her hands, began to weep. Williams approached her, overflowing with consolation, and placed his hand caressingly upon her arm. She sprang from him as if she had been stung, and cried out:—
"Don't put your hand on me! Don't touch me!" She stepped backward toward the door leading upstairs to her room.
"Why, Rita," said Williams, "I did not intend anything wrong. I would not offend you for all the world. You are nervous, Rita, and—and—"
"Don't call me Rita," she interrupted, sobbing. "I hate—I hate—" she was going to say "I hate you," but said,—"the name."
He still approached her, though she had been retreating backward step by step. He had no thought of touching her; but as he came toward her, she lost self-control and almost screamed:—
"Don't touch me, I say! Don't touch me!" She had endured his presence
till she could bear it no longer, and the thought of Dic sitting with
Sukey had so wrought upon her that her self-control was exhausted.
Williams walked back to the fireplace, and Rita, opening the stair door,
hurriedly went to her room.
She was not one in whom the baser sort of jealousy could exist; but the thought of Dic, her Dic, sitting with Sukey, while she was compelled to endure the presence of the man she had learned almost to hate, burned her. Her jealousy did not take the form of hatred toward Sukey, and the pain it brought her was chiefly because it confirmed her in the belief that she had lost Dic. She did not doubt that Dic had loved her, and her faith in that fact quickened her sense of loss. She blamed no one but herself for the fact that he no longer loved her, and was seeking another. Still, she was jealous, though even that unholy passion could not be base in her.
Sukey smiled and dimpled at Dic for an hour or two with no appreciable effect. He sat watching the fire, seeing none of her little love signals, and went home quite as wretched as he had come. Evidently, Sukey was the wrong remedy, though upon seeing her charms one would have felt almost justified in warranting her,—no cure, no pay. Perhaps she was a too-willing remedy: an overdose of even the right drug may neutralize itself. As for myself, I love Dic better because his ailment responded to no remedy.
Next day, Tom, without at all deserving it, won Rita's gratitude by taking Williams out shooting.
After supper Rita said, "My head aches, and if I may be excused, I will go to my room."
But her mother vetoed the proposition:—
"Your head does not ache, and you will stay downstairs. Your father and I are going to church, and Mr. Williams will not want to be alone, will you, Mr. Williams?"
"Indeed, I hope Miss Bays will keep me company," answered this persistent, not-to-be-shaken-off suitor.
So Rita remained downstairs with Williams and listened to his apologies for having offended her the night before. She felt contrite, and in turn told him she was the one who should apologize, and said she hoped he would forgive her. Her gentle heart could not bear to inflict pain even upon this man who had brought so much suffering to her.
The next morning took Williams away, and Rita's thoughts were all devoted to formulating a plan whereby she might see Dic and beg his forgiveness after a fashion that would have been a revelation to Williams.
Several days of furious storm ensued, during which our Rita, for the first time in her life, was too ill to go abroad.
Mr. Bays had gone to Indianapolis with Williams, and returned on Thursday's coach, having failed to raise the three thousand dollars. At the supper table, on the evening of his return, Tom offered a suggestion.
"I'll tell you where you can get most of the money," he said. "Dic has twenty-six hundred dollars in Billy Little's box. He'll loan it to you."
"That's just the thing," cried Mrs. Bays, joyfully. "Tom, you are the smartest boy on Blue. It took you to help us out." One would have thought from her praise that Tom, and not Dic, was to furnish the money. Addressing her husband, she continued:—
"You go over and see him this evening. If he won't loan it to us after all we have done for him, he ought to be horsewhipped."
"What have we ever done for him?" asked Tom. The Chief Justice sought for an answer. Failing to find a better one, she replied:—
"He's had five hundred meals in this house if he's had one."
"And he's given us five hundred deer and turkeys if he's given us one," answered Tom.
"Well, you know, Tom, just as well as I do, that we have always been helping him. It is only your generous nature keeps you from saying so," responded Mrs. Bays. Tom laughed, and Tom, Sr., said:—
"I'll go over and see him this evening. I wonder where he has been? I haven't seen him but once since he came home."
"Guess Williams scared him off," suggested Tom.
Rita tried in vain to think of some plan whereby she might warn Dic against loaning the money, or prevent her father from asking it. After supper Tom went to town while his father went up to see Dic.
When the after-supper work was finished, Mrs. Bays took her knitting and sat before the fire in the front room. Rita, wishing to be alone, remained in the kitchen, watching the fire die down and cuddling her grief. She had been there but a few minutes when the outer door opened and in walked Dic.
"I have come to ask you if you have forgotten me?" he said.
The girl answered with a cry of joy, and ran to him.
"Ah, Dic, I have forgotten all else. Forgive me. Forgive me," she replied, and as the tears came, he drew her to his side.
"But, Rita—this man Williams?" he asked.
"I ... I know, Dic," she said between sobs, "I ... I know, but I can't ... can't tell you now. Wait till I can speak. But I love you. I ... can tell you that much. I will try to ... to explain when ... I can talk."
"You need explain nothing," said Dic, soothingly. "I want only to know that you have not forgotten me. I have suffered terribly these last few days."
"I'm so glad," responded the sobbing girl, unconscious of her apparent selfishness.
The kitchen fireplace was too small for a hearth log, so Dic and Rita took chairs before the fire, and the girl, regardless of falling tears, began her explanation.
"You see, it was this way, Dic," she sobbed. "He came with Uncle Jim, and then he came again and again. I did not want him—I am sure you know that I did not—but mother insisted, and I thought you would make it all right when you returned. You know mother has heart trouble, and any excitement may kill her. She is so—so—her will is so strong, and I fear her and love her so much. She is my mother, and it is my duty to obey her when—when I can. The time may come when I cannot obey her. It has come, several times, and when I disobey her I suffer terribly and always think how I would feel if she were to die."
Dic longed to enlighten her concerning the mother heart, but could not find it in his heart to attack even his arch-enemy through Rita's simple, unquestioning faith. That faith was a part of the girl's transcendent perfection, and a good daughter would surely make a good wife.
Rita continued her explanation: "He came many times to see me, and it seems as though he grew to liking me. Then he asked me to marry him, but I refused, Dic; I refused. I should have told him then that I had promised to be your wife—" here she gave Dic her hand—"but I was ashamed and—and, oh, I can't explain after all. I can't tell you how it all happened. I thought I could; but I really do not myself understand how it has all come about."
"You have not promised him?" asked Dic in alarm.
"Indeed, I have not, and I never shall. He has tried, with mother's help, to force himself upon me, and I have been frightened almost to death for fear he would succeed. Oh, take me now, Dic. Take me at once and save me from him."
"I would, Rita, but you are not yet eighteen, and we must have the consent of your parents before we can marry. That, you know, your mother would refuse. When you are eighteen—but that will be almost a year from now—I will take you home with me. Do not fear. Give me your love, and trust to me for the rest."
"Now I feel safe," she cried, snatching up Dic's hand. "You are stronger than mother. I saw that the evening before you left, when we were all on the porch and you spoke up so bravely to her. You will meet her face to face and beat down her will. I can't do it. I become helpless when she attacks me. I am miserably weak. I sometimes hate myself and fear I should not marry you. I know I shall not be able to make you a good wife."
Dic expressed an entire willingness to take the risk. "But why did you accept a ring from him?"
"I did not," responded Rita, with wide-open eyes. "He offered me a diamond when he asked me to—to—but I refused it. I gave him back his watch, too; but mother does not know I did. She would be angry. She thinks the watch you gave me is the one he offered."
"Sukey Yates said you showed her his ring."
"Dic," returned Rita, firing up indignantly, "did Sukey tell you that—that lie? I don't like to use the word, but, Dic, she lied. She once saw your ring upon my finger, before I could hide it from her, but I did not tell her who had given it to me. I told her nothing. I don't believe she intended to tell a story. I am sorry I used the other word. She probably thought that Mr.—Mr.—that man had given it to me." After she had spoken, a shadowy little cloud came upon her face. "You were over to see Sukey Christmas night," she said, looking very straight into the fire.
"Yes," returned Dic. "How did you learn that I was there?"
"Tom told me," she answered. "And I cried right out before Mr.—Mr.—the Boston man."
"Ah, did you?" asked Dic, leaning forward and taking her hand.
"Yes; and when he put his hand on my arm," she continued, very proud of the spirit she had shown, "I just flew at him savagely. Oh, I can be fierce when I wish. He will never touch me again, you may depend on it." She then gave the details of the scene with Williams, dwelling proudly upon the fact of her successful retreat to bed, and meekly telling of what she called her jealousy and wickedness. She had asked forgiveness of God, and now she would ask it of Dic, evidently believing that if God and Dic would forgive her wicked jealousy, no one else had any right to complain. She was justly proud of the manner in which she had accomplished the retreat movement, and really felt that she was becoming dare-devilish to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled by an undutiful daughter.
"You don't know how wicked I can be," she said, in great earnestness.
"I know how good and beautiful you are," answered Dic. "I know you are the one perfect human being in all the world—and it is useless for me to try to tell you how much you are to me. When I am alone, I am better able to realize what I feel, but I cannot speak it."
"Oh, Dic, is it really true?" asked the girl. "Neither can I tell how—how—" but those emotions which cannot be spoken in words, owing to the poverty of our language, must be expressed otherwise. God or Satan taught the proper method to Adam and Eve, and it has come down to us by patristic succession, so that we have it to-day in all its pristine glory and expressiveness. Some have spoken against the time-honored custom, and claim to mark its decadence. Connecticut forbade it by law on Sundays, and frowned upon it "Fridays, Saturdays, and all"; but when it dies, the Lord will whitewash this old earth and let it out as a moon to shine upon happier worlds where the custom still lives.
Rita and Dic did not disturb Mrs. Bays, and she, unconscious of his presence, did not disturb them until Mr. Bays returned.
When Mrs. Bays learned that Dic had been in the kitchen an hour, she felt that the highest attribute of the human mind had been grossly outraged. But her husband was about to ask a favor of Dic, and she limited her expression of dissent to an exhibition of frigid, virtuous dignity, worthy of the king's bench, or Judge Anselm Fisher himself.
When Bays came home, Dic and Rita went into the front room and took their old places on the ciphering log. Mr. and Mrs. Bays sat on the hearth before the fire. Mrs. Bays brought a chair and indicated by a gesture that Rita should occupy it; but with Dic by her side that young lady was brave and did not observe her mother's mute commands. Amid the press of other matters in the kitchen, Rita had not remembered to warn Dic not to lend her father the money. When that fluttering heart of hers was in great trouble or joy, it was apt to be a forgetful little organ, and regret in this instance followed forgetfulness. The regret came after she was seated with Dic on the hearth log, and, being in her mother's presence, dared not speak.
Mr. Bays was genuinely glad to see Dic, and listened with delight to the narrative of his trip. When an opportunity arose, Tom, Sr., said:—
"I have a fine opportunity to go into business with Jim Fisher. I want to borrow three thousand dollars, and I wonder if you will be willing to lend me your money?"
"Yes," answered Dic, eagerly, "I am glad to lend it to you." He welcomed the proposition as a blind man would welcome light. He was glad to help his lifelong friend; but over and above that motive Mr. Bays's request for money seemed to mean Rita. It certainly could mean nothing else; and if the family moved to Indianapolis, it would mean Rita in the cosey log-cabin up the river at once. Dic and his mother lived together, and, even without Rita, the log house was a delightful home, warm in winter and cool in summer; but the beautiful girl would transmute the log walls to jasper, the hewed floors to beaten gold, and would create a paradise on the banks of Blue. The thought almost made him dizzy. He had never before felt so near to possessing her.
"Indeed I will," he repeated.
"I will pay you the highest rate of interest," said Mr. Bays.
"I want no interest, and you may repay the loan in one or ten years, as you choose."
Rita, unable to repress her desire to speak, exclaimed: "Oh, Dic, please don't," but Mrs. Bays gazed sternly over her glasses at her daughter and suppressed the presumptuous, forward girl. The old lady, seeing Dic's eagerness to lend the money, seized the opportunity to lessen her obligation in the transaction and to make it appear that she was conferring a favor upon Dic. If she and Mr. Bays would condescend to borrow his money, she determined that Dic should fully appreciate the honor they were doing him. Therefore, after a formulative pause, she spoke to her daughter:—
"Mind your own affairs. Girls should be seen and not heard. Some girls are seen altogether too much. Your father and Dic will arrange this affair between themselves without your help. It is purely an affair of business. Dic, of course, wishes to invest his money; and if your father, after due consideration, is willing to help him, I am sure he should feel obliged to us, and no doubt he will. He would be an ungrateful person indeed if he did not. I am sure your father's note is as good as the bank. He pays his just debts. He is my husband and could not do otherwise. No man lives who has not at all times received his dues from us to the last penny. If a penny is coming to us, we want it. If we owe one, we pay it. My father, Judge Anselm Fisher, was the same way. His maxim was, 'Justice to all and confusion to sinners.' He died beholden to no man. Neither have I ever been beholden to any one. Dic is fortunate, indeed, in finding so good an investment for his money, at interest; very fortunate indeed."
"I don't want interest," said the too eager Dic.
"Indeed, that is generous in you," returned Mrs. Bays, though she was determined that Dic should not succeed in casting the burden of an obligation upon her shoulders. "But of course you know your money will be safe, and that is a great deal in these days of weak banks and robbers. If I were in Mr. Bays's place, I should pause and consider the matter carefully and prayerfully before assuming responsibility for anybody's money. If it should be stolen from him, he, and not you, would lose it. I think it is very kind in him to undertake the responsibility."
That phase of the question slightly dimmed its rosiness; but Dic still hoped that lending the money would make smoother his path to Rita. At first he had not foreseen that he, and not the Bayses, would rest under an obligation. To the girl the lending of this money meant Indianapolis, Williams, and separation from Dic.
THE TOURNAMENT
CHAPTER X
The Tournament
Mr. Bays, rash man that he was, without care or prayer, accepted Dic's loan and was thankful, despite the good wife's effort to convince him he was conferring a favor. Her remarks had been much more convincing to Dic than to her husband. The latter could not entirely throw off the feeling that Dic was doing him a favor.
The money was to be delivered and the note executed in ten days, Mrs. Margarita insisting that Dic should be responsible for his own money until it was needed by her husband.
"He certainly would not ask us to be responsible for his money till we can use it," she observed, in an injured tone, to her daughter. One would have supposed from her attitude that an imposition was being put upon her, though she, herself, being accustomed to bear the burdens of others, would bow her neck beneath this yoke and accept the responsibility of Dic's money. She not only convinced herself that such was the proper view to take of the transaction, but succeeded fairly well in impressing even Rita with that belief. Such an achievement required generalship of the highest order; but Mrs. Bays possessed that rare quality to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled.
The loan was to bear no interest, Dic hoping to heighten the sense of obligation in Mr. Bays. He succeeded; but of course the important member of the family still felt that Dic was beholden to her. She could not, however, with either safety or justice, exclude from her house the man who was to lend the much-needed money. While she realized the great favor she was conferring on Dic, and fully understood the nature of the burden she was taking upon herself solely for his sake, she had no thought of shrinking from her duty;—not she. The money had not been delivered, and Dic, if offended, might change his mind and foolishly refuse her sacrifice. It might not be entirely safe to presume too largely upon his sense of obligation—some persons are devoid of gratitude—until the money was in hand. For these reasons Dic was tolerated, and during the next ten days spent his evenings with Rita, though mother and father Bays did not migrate to the kitchen, in accordance with well-established usage on Blue, and as they had done when Williams came a-wooing. Dic cared little for the infringement, and felt that old times had come again. Rita, growing bold, braved her mother's wrath, and continued each evening to give him a moment of his own. One evening it would be a drink from the well that she wanted. Again, it was a gourdful of shell-barks from the cellar under the kitchen, whence she, of course, was afraid to fetch them alone. The most guileless heart will grow adroit under certain well-known conditions; and even Rita, the simplest of girls, easily made opportunities to give Dic these little moments from which she came back rosy, while that lucky young man was far from discontented.
Rita paid each evening for Dic's moment when the door closed on him, and continued payment during the next day till his return. But she considered the moment a great bargain at the price, continued her purchases, and paid the bills on demand to incarnate Justice. The bills were heavy, and had not Rita been encased by an armor of trusty steel, wrought from the links of her happiness, her soft, white form would have been pierced through and through by the tough, ashen shafts of her mother's relentless cruelty.
We are apt to feel pain and suffering comparatively. To one who has experienced a great agony, smaller troubles seem trivial. Rita had experienced her great agony, and her mother's thrusts were but needle pricks compared with it.
Arrangements were quickly made for moving to Indianapolis, and at the end of ten days all was ready for the money to be delivered. Dic again asked for Rita, and Mr. Bays was for delivering the girl at once. His new venture at Indianapolis had stimulated his sense of self-importance, and he insisted, with a temerity never before dared, that Dic, whom he truly loved, should have the daughter whom they each loved. But the Chief Justice would agree to nothing more than an extension of the armistice, and graciously consented that Dic might visit the family at Indianapolis once in a while.
After Dic had agreed to lend the money, he at once notified Billy Little, in whose strong-box it was stored. Dic, in the course of their conversation, expressed to Billy the sense of obligation he felt to the Bayses.
"I declare," vowed Billy, "that old woman is truly great. When she goes to heaven, she will convince St. Peter that she is doing him a favor by entering the pearly gates. Neither will she go in unless everything suits her. There is not another like her. Archimedes said he could lift the world with a lever if he had a fulcrum. Undiluted egotism is the fulcrum. But one must actually believe in one's self to be effective. One cannot impose a sham self-faith upon the world. Only the man who believes his own lie can lie convincingly. Egad! Dic, it would have been beautiful to see that self-sufficient old harridan attempting to convince you that she was conferring a favor by taking your money. You will probably never see a fippenny bit of it again. And without interest! Jove! I say it was beautiful. Had she wanted your liver, I suppose you would have thanked her for accepting it. She is a wonder."
These remarks opened Dic's eyes and convinced him that the New York trip had not effaced all traces of unsophistication.
In those days of weak strong-boxes and numerous box-breakers, men hesitated to assume the responsibility of taking another's gold for safe-keeping. There could be no profit to Billy Little in Dic's gold. He took it to keep for him only because he loved him. The sum total of Billy's wealth, aside from his stock of goods valued at a thousand dollars, consisted of notes, secured by mortgages, amounting to four thousand dollars. Of this sum he had lent five hundred dollars to Dic, who had repaid him in gold. The money had been placed in Billy Little's strong-box with Dic's twenty-six hundred dollars. Each sum of gold was contained in a canvas shot-bag. Of course news of Dic's wealth had spread throughout the town and country, and had furnished many a pleasant hour of conversation among persons with whom topics were scarce.
Late one night Billy Little's slumbers were disturbed by a noise in the store, and his mind at once turned to the gold. He rose quickly, seized his shot-gun, and opened the door leading into the storeroom just in time to see two men climb out through the open window near the post-office boxes. Billy ran to the window and saw the men a hundred yards away. He climbed out and hurried in pursuit, but the men were soon out of sight, and Billy returned shivering to the store. He could see by the dim light from the window that the doors of his strong-box were standing open. There was no need to examine the box. Billy well knew the gold had vanished. He shut the iron doors and went back to his room, poked the fire, seated himself at the piano, and for the next hour ran through his favorite repertoire, closing the concert with "Annie Laurie." Then he went to bed and slept like an untroubled child till morning.
The safe had been unlocked by means of a false key. There were no visible signs of robbery, and Billy Little determined to tell no one of his loss. The first question that confronted him in the morning was, what should be done about the loss of Dic's gold? That proposition he quickly settled. He went across the road to the inn, got his breakfast, returned to his room, donned his broadcloth coat, made thirty years before in London, took from his strong-box notes to the amount of twenty-six hundred dollars, and left for Indianapolis by the noon stage. At Indianapolis he sold the notes and brought back Dic's gold. This he kept in his iron box during the day and under his pillow at night.
The household effects of the Bays family were placed in two wagons to be taken to Indianapolis. Dic had offered to drive one team, and Tom was to drive the other. Mr. Bays had preceded the family by a day or two; but before leaving he and Dic had gone to Billy Little's store for the money. Dic, of course, knew nothing of the robbery. Billy had privately advised his young friend to lend the money payable on demand.
"You should buy a farm when a good opportunity offers," said he. "Land hereabouts will increase in value a hundred per cent in ten years. You should not tie up your money for a long time."
Billy made the same representation to Bays, and that gentleman, eager to get the money on any terms, agreed with him. Little's real, though unspoken, reason was this: he felt that if Dic held a debt against Bays, collectible upon demand, it would be a protection against Mrs. Margarita's too keen sense of justice, and might prove an effective help in winning Rita from the icy dragoness. Therefore, the note was drawn payable on demand. When Mrs. Bays learned that fact, she named over to her spouse succinctly the various species of fool of which he was the composite representative. The satisfaction she felt in unbosoming herself was her only reward, for the note remained collectible on demand.
The weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. So it had been determined that Rita and her mother should travel to Indianapolis by the stage coach. But when the wagons were ready to start, at sun-up, Mrs. Bays being in bed, Rita basely deserted that virtuous woman and climbed over the front wheel to the seat beside Dic. She left a note for her mother, saying that she would go with the wagon to save the seven shilling stage fare. She knew she was making a heavy purchase of "moments," and was sure she would be called upon for instant payment that night when she should meet her mother. She was willing to pay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of Phœbus would have been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereon she rode.
The sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filled with glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed Blue on the ice at the ford below Bays's barn. The horses' breath came from their nostrils like steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozen snow, seemed to laugh for joy. It would have been a sad moment for Rita had she not been with Dic; but with him by her side she did not so much as turn her head for one backward look upon the home she was leaving.
Dic wore a coat made from mink pelts which he had taken in the hunt, and he so wrapped and enveloped Rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes that the cold could not come near her. He covered her head, mouth, nose, and cheeks with a great fur cap of his own; but he left her eyes exposed, saying, "I must be able to see them, you know." As he fastened the curtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer from the eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer and the mercury freezing in the bulb.