THE BACHELOR HEART
Rita's first great pain kept her sleepless through many hours. She
resolved that when Dic should come again she would throw off the
restraint that so hurt and provoked her, and would show him, at whatever
cost, that she had not intended her hard words for him.
The next day seemed an age. She sought all kinds of work to make the
time pass quickly. Churning, usually irksome, was a luxury. She swept
every nook and corner of the house, and longed to sweep the whole farm.
That evening she did not wait till Dic was in sight to put on her
ribbon. She changed it many times from her throat to her hair and back
again, long before the sun had even thought of going down.
Her new attitude toward Dic had at least one good effect: it took from
her the irritation she had so often felt against herself. Losing part of
her self-consciousness in the whirl of a new, strong motive, wrought a
great change, not only in her appearance, but also in her way of looking
at things--herself included. She was almost satisfied with the image her
mirror reflected. She might well have been entirely satisfied. There was
neither guile nor vanity in the girl's heart, nor a trace of deceit in
her face; only gentleness, truth, and beauty. She had not hitherto given
much thought to her face; but with the change in her way of seeing Dic,
her eyes were opened to the value of personal beauty. Then she began to
wonder. Regret for her hard words to Dic deepened her longing for
beauty, in the hope that she might be admired by him and more easily
forgiven. Billy Little, who had seen much of the world, once said that
there was a gentleness and beauty about Rita at this time which he
believed no other woman ever possessed. She was child and woman then,
and that combination is hard to beat, even in a plain girl. Poor old
Billy Little! He was more than thirty years her senior, but I believe
there is no period in the life of a bachelor, however case-hardened he
may be, when his heart is entirely safe from the enemy. That evening
Rita sat on the porch watching for Dic. But the sun and her heart went
down, and Dic did not come.
The plaintive rain cry of a whippoorwill from the branches of a dead
tree across the river, and the whispering "peep, peep, peep," of the
sleepy robins in the foliage near the house, helped to deepen her
feeling of disappointment, and she was thoroughly miserable. She tried
to peer through the gloaming, and feared her father and mother would
mark her troubled eagerness and guess its cause. But her dread of their
comments was neutralized by the fear that Dic would not come.
Opportunity is the touchstone of fate, save with women. With them it is
fate itself. Had Dic appeared late that evening, there would have been a
demonstration on Rita's part, regardless of who might have seen, and the
young man would have discovered an interesting truth. Rita, deeply
troubled, discovered it for herself, and thought surely it was plain
enough for every one else to see.
When darkness had fallen, she became reckless of concealment, and walked
a short way up the river in the hope of meeting Dic. The hooting of an
owl frightened her, but she did not retreat till she heard the howling
of a wolf. Then she ran home at full speed and went to bed full of the
most healthful suffering a heart can know--that which it feels because
of the pain it has given another.
[Illustration: "SHE CHANGED IT MANY TIMES."]
Thus Dic missed both opportunity and demonstration. The next evening he
missed another opportunity, and by the morning of the third day our
little girl, blushing at the thought, determined to write to him and ask
his forgiveness. There was one serious obstacle to writing: she had
neither paper nor ink, nor money with which to buy them. Hitherto she
had found little use for money, but now the need was urgent. Tom always
had money, and she thought of begging a few pennies from him. No! Tom
would laugh, and refuse. If she should ask her mother, a string of
questions would ensue, with "No" for a snapper. Her father would
probably give her money, if she asked for it; but her mother would ask
questions later. She would ride to town, one mile south on Blue, and ask
credit of her old friend, Billy Little, to the extent of a sheet of
paper and a small pot of ink. For a pen she would catch a goose, pluck a
quill, and ask Billy to cut it. Billy could cut the best pen of any one
on Blue.
Dinner over, she caught the goose after an exciting chase, plucked the
quill, saddled her horse, and was slipping away from the back yard when
her mother's voice halted her.
"Where are you going?" asked Mrs. Margarita.
"I'm--I'm--going--going to see Sukey Yates," answered the girl.
She had not intended going to Sukey's, but after her mother's peremptory
demand for information, she formed the _ex post facto_ resolution to do
so, that her answer might not be a lie.
"Now, what on earth do you want there?" asked the Chief Justice.
"I--I only want to sit awhile with her," answered Rita. "May I go? The
work is all done."
"No, you shan't go," responded the kind old lady. You see, one of the
maxims of this class of good persons is to avoid as many small
pleasures as possible--in others. That they apply the rule to
themselves, doesn't help to make it endurable.
Rita--with whom to hear was to obey--sprang from her horse; but just
then her father came upon the scene. His soft words and soothing
suggestions mollified Justice, and Rita started forth upon her visit to
Sukey. She had told her mother she was going to see Sukey Yates; and
when she thought upon the situation, she became convinced that her _ex
post facto_ resolution, even though honestly acted upon, would not avail
her in avoiding a lie, unless it were carried out to the letter and in
the spirit. There was not a lie in this honest girl--not a fractional
part of a lie--from her toes to her head. She went straight to see
Sukey, and did not go to town, though she might easily have done so. She
did not fear discovery. She feared the act of secret disobedience, and
above all she dreaded the lie. A strong motive might induce her to
disobey, but the disobedience in that case would be open. She would go
to Sukey's to-day. To-morrow she would go to town in open rebellion, if
need be. The thought of rebellion caused her to tremble; but let the
powers at home also tremble. Like many of us, she was brave for
to-morrow's battle, since to-morrow never comes.
Rita was not in the humor to listen to Sukey's good-natured prattle, so
her visit was brief, and she soon rode home, her heart full of trouble
and rebellion. But the reward for virtue, which frequently fails to make
its appearance, waited upon our heroine. When she was about to dismount
at the home gate, her father called to her:--
"While you're on your horse, Rita, you might ride to town and ask Billy
Little if there's a letter. The mail came in three days ago."
The monster, Rebellion, at once disappeared, and the girl,
conscience-smitten, resolved never, never to entertain him again. She
rode down the river path through the forest, happy after many days of
wretchedness.
Billy Little's store building consisted of two log-built rooms. The long
front room was occupied by the store and post-office. The back room, as
Billy said, was occupied by his piano and himself. When he saw Rita,
clothed in dainty calico and smiles, gallop up to the hitching-post, his
heart was filled with joy, his face beamed with pleasure, and his scalp
was suffused by a rosy hue. Billy's smooth-shaven face was pale, the
blood never mounting to his cheeks, so he made amends as best he could
and blushed with the top of his head.
"Good evening to you, Rita," he said, as he lifted her to the ground and
hitched her horse. "I am delighted to see you. You come like the rosy
sun after a rainy day."
"The sun doesn't come after the day, Billy Little," retorted the
laughing girl. "You probably mean the pale moon, or a poor dim little
star."
"I know what I mean," answered the little old fellow in tones of mock
indignation, "and I'll not allow a chit of a girl to correct my
astronomy. I'm your schoolmaster, and if I say the sun comes after the
day, why after the day it comes. Now, there!" he continued, as they
entered the store. "Turn your face to the wall and do penance. Such
insolence!"
The girl faced the wall, and after a moment she looked laughingly over
her shoulder at him. "If you'll let me turn around, I'll admit that the
sun comes at midnight, if you say it does, Billy Little."
"Midnight it is," said Billy, sternly. "Take your seat."
She ran laughing to Billy, and clasping his arm affectionately, said
with a touch of seriousness:--
"It comes whenever you say it does, Billy Little. I'd believe you before
I'd believe myself."
Poor old bachelor heart! Look to your breastworks; the enemy is at hand.
"Now I've noticed," said cynical Billy, "that whenever the feminine
heart wants something, it grows tender. What do you want?"
"I want a letter, Billy Little. Father sent me down to fetch it, if
there is one."
"Yes, there's one here," he answered, going back of the glass-covered
pigeon-holes. "There's one here from Indianapolis. It's from your Uncle
Jim Fisher. I suppose he's after your father again to sell his farm and
invest the proceeds in the Indianapolis store. Precious fool he'll be if
he does."
"Indeed, he would not be a fool," retorted the girl. "I'm just wild for
father to move to Indianapolis. I don't want to grow up in the country
like a ragweed or mullein stalk, and I--" ("Like a sweetbrier or a
golden-rod," interrupted Billy) "and I don't want you to advise him not
to go," she continued, unmindful of Billy's flowers of poesy.
"Well, here's the letter. Do you want anything else?"
"N-o-o-no."
"Then, for once, I've found a disinterested female in a coaxing mood,"
replied this modern Diogenes. He came from behind the counter,
pretending to believe her, and started toward the door.
"How's Dic?" he asked. "I haven't seen him for a fortnight. I've been
wondering what has become of him." The girl's face turned red--painfully
so to Billy--as she replied:--
"I--I haven't seen him either for--for a very long time--three days."
She stopped talking and Billy remained silent. After a long pause she
spoke up briskly, as if she had just remembered something.
"Oh, I almost forgot--there _is_ something I want, and--and after all,
you're right. I want--I want--won't you--will you--I say, Billy Little,
won't you let me have a sheet of writing paper and a pot of ink, and
won't you cut this pen for me?"
Billy took the quill and turned to go behind the counter. The girl was
dancing nervously on her toes. "But say, Billy Little, I can't pay you
for them now. Will--will--you trust me?"
Billy did not reply, but went to the letter-paper box.
"You had better take more than one sheet, Rita," he said softly. "If
you're going to write a love-letter to Dic, you will be sure to spoil
the first sheet, perhaps the second and third."
Billy's head blushed vividly after he had spoken, for his remark was a
prying one. The girl had no thought of writing a love-letter, and she
resented the insinuation. She was annoyed because she had betrayed her
purpose in buying the paper. But she loved Billy Little too dearly to
show her resentment, and remained silent. The girl, Billy, and Dic
differing as much as it is possible for three persons to differ, save in
their common love for books and truth, had been friends ever since her
babyhood, and Billy was the only person to whom she could easily lay
bare her heart. Upon second thought she concluded to tell him her
trouble.
"It was this way, Billy Little," she began, and after stumbling over
many words, she made a good start, and the little story of her troubles
fell from her lips like crystal water from a babbling spring.
After her story was finished--and she found great relief in the
telling--Billy said:--
"Of course I'll trust you. I'd trust you for the whole store if you
wanted to buy it. I'd trust you with my soul," he added after a pause.
"There's not a false drop of blood in your veins."
"Ah, Billy Little," she answered, as she took his hand caressingly for
an instant, and her eyes, with their wonderful capacity for expression,
said the rest.
"So, you see, I _do_ want to write a letter to Dic," she said, dropping
his hand; "but it is not to be a love-letter. I could not write one if I
wished. I was very wicked. Oh, Billy Little, I honestly think, at times,
I'm the worst girl that ever lived. Something terrible will happen to me
for my wickedness, I'm sure. Mother says it will."
"Yes, something terrible--terrible, I'm sure," returned Billy, musingly.
"And I want to apologize to him," she continued, "and tell him I didn't
mean it. Isn't it right that I should?"
"Oh, yes--yes," answered Billy, starting out of his revery. "Of course,
yes--Maxwelton's braes are bonny--um--um--um--um--um--yes, oh yes."
When vexed, pleased, or puzzled, Billy was apt to hum the opening line
of "Annie Laurie," though the first four words were all that received
the honor of distinct articulation. The remainder of the stanza he
allowed to die away under his breath. Rita was of course familiar with
the habit, but this time she could not tell which motive had prompted
the musical outburst. Billy himself couldn't have told, but perhaps the
bachelor heart was at the bottom of it.
"Thank you, Billy Little, for the paper," said Rita. "I'll pay you with
the first money I get." Billy silently helped her to mount her horse.
She smiled, "Good-by," and he walked slowly back to the store muttering
to himself: "Billy Little, Billy Little, your breastworks are weak, and
you are a--Maxwelton's braes--um--um--um--um.--Ah, good evening, Mrs.
Carson. Something I can do for you this evening? Sugar? Ah, yes, plenty.
Best in town. Best shipment I ever had," and Billy was once more a
merchant.
When Rita reached home supper was ready, and after the supper work was
finished it was too dark to write; so the letter was postponed a day,
and she took her place on the porch, hoping that Dic would come and that
the letter might be postponed indefinitely. But he did not come. Next
morning churning had again become loathsome, sweeping was hard work, and
dinner was a barbarous institution. Rita had no appetite, and to
sympathize with those who are hungry one must be hungry.
Innumerable very long minutes had woven themselves into mammoth hours
when Rita, having no table in her room, found herself lying on the floor
writing her momentous letter. It was not to be a love-letter; simply an
appeal for forgiveness to a friend whom she had wantonly injured.
"Dear old Billy Little," she said to herself, when she opened the
package. "What pretty paper--and he has given me six sheets in place of
one--and a little pot of ink--and a sand-box! I wonder if the quill is a
good one! Ah, two--three quills! Dear old Billy Little! Here is enough
paper to last me for years." In that respect she was mistaken. She
experienced difficulty with effort number one, but finished the letter
and read it aloud; found it wholly unsatisfactory, and destroyed it. She
used greater care with the next, but upon reading it over she found she
had said too much of what she wished to leave unsaid, and too little of
what she wanted to say. She destroyed number two with great haste and
some irritation, for it was almost a love-letter. The same fate befell
numbers three, four, and five. After all, Billy's liberal supply of
paper would not last for years. If it proved sufficient for one day, she
would be satisfied. Number six, right or wrong, must go to Dic, so she
wrote simply and briefly what was in her heart.
"DEAR FRIEND DIC: My words were not intended for you. I was angry
with Tom, as I had good reason to be, though he spoke the truth. I
did put on my ribbon because I saw you coming, and I have cried
every night since then because of what I said to you, and because
you do not come to let me tell you how sorry I am. You should have
given me a chance. I would have given you one. RITA."
It was a sweet, straightforward letter, half-womanly, half-childish, and
she had no cause to be ashamed of it; but she feared it was bold, and
tears came to her eyes when she read it, because there were no more
sheets of paper, and modest or bold it must go to Dic.
Having written the letter, she had no means of sending it; but she had
entered upon the venture, and was determined to carry it through. Mrs.
Bays and her husband had driven to town, and there was no need for _ex
post facto_ resolutions. When the letter had been properly directed and
duly sealed, the girl saddled her horse and started away on another
journey to Sukey Yates. This time, however, she went somewhat out of her
way, riding up the river path through the forest to Dic Bright's home.
When she reached the barnyard gate Dic was hitching the horses to the
"big wagon." He came at Rita's call, overjoyed at the sight of her. He
knew she had come to ask forgiveness. For many months past he had tried
not to see that she was unkind to him, but her words on the porch had
convinced him, and he saw that her coldness had been intentional. Of
course he did not know the cause of her altered demeanor, and had
regretfully put it down to an altered sentiment on her part. But when he
saw her at the barnyard gate, he was again in the dark as to her motive.
When Dic came up to her she handed him the letter over the gate,
saying: "Read it alone. Let no one see it."
Dic had only time to say, "Thank you," when the girl struck her horse
and galloped down the forest path, bound for Sukey. When she had passed
out of sight among the trees, Dic went down the river to a secluded
spot, known as "The Stepoff," where he could read the letter without
fear of detection. He had long suspected that his love for the girl was
not altogether brotherly, and his recent trouble with her had
crystallized that suspicion into certainty. But he saw nothing back of
the letter but friendship and contrition. The girl's love was so great a
treasure that he dared not even hope for it, and was more than satisfied
with the Platonic affection so plainly set forth in her epistle. We who
have looked into Rita's heart know of a thing or two that does not
resemble Platonism; but the girl herself did not fully know what she
felt, and Dic was sure she could not, under any circumstances, feel as
he did. His mistake grew partly out of his lack of knowledge that
woman's flesh and blood is of exactly the same quality that covers the
bones and flows in the veins of man, and--well, Rita was Rita, and, in
Dic's opinion, no other human being was ever of the quality of her
flesh, or cast in the mould of her nature. The letter told him that he
still held her warm, tender love as a friend. He was thankful for that,
and would neither ask nor expect anything more.
If upon Rita's former visit to Sukey she had been too sad to enjoy the
vivacious little maiden, upon this occasion she was too happy. She sat
listening patiently to her chat, without hearing much of it, until Sukey
said:--
"Dic was over to see me last night. I think he's so handsome, don't
you?"
Rita was so startled that she did not think anything at the moment, and
Sukey presently asked:--
"Don't you think he has a fine head? and his eyes are glorious. The gray
is so dark, and they look right at you."
Rita, compelled to answer, said, "I think he is--is all right--strong."
"Indeed, he is strong," responded Sukey. "When he takes hold of you, you
just feel like he could crush you. Oh, it's delicious--it's
thrilling--when you feel that a man could just tear you to pieces if he
wanted to."
"Why?" asked Rita; "I don't understand."
"Oh, just because," replied Sukey, shrugging her shoulders and laughing
softly, her red lips parted, her little teeth glistening like wet ivory,
and the dimples twinkling mischievously.
"Just because" explained nothing to Rita, but something in Sukey's
laughter and manner aroused undefined and disagreeable suspicions, so
she said:--
"Well, Sukey, I must be going home."
"Why, you just came," returned Sukey, still laughing softly. She had
shot her arrow intentionally and had seen it strike the target's centre.
Sukey was younger than Rita, but she knew many times a thing or two;
while poor Rita's knowledge of those mystic numbers was represented by
the figure O.
Why should Dic "take hold" of any one, thought Rita, while riding home,
and above all, why should he take hold of Sukey? Sukey was pretty, and
Sukey's prettiness and Dic's "taking hold" seemed to be related in some
mysterious manner. She who saw others through the clear lens of her own
conscience did not doubt Dic and Sukey, but notwithstanding her
trustfulness, a dim suspicion passed through her mind that something
might be wrong if Dic had really "taken hold" of Sukey. Where the evil
was, she could not determine; and to connect the straightforward, manly
fellow with anything dishonorable or wicked was impossible to her. So
she dismissed the subject, and it left no trace upon her mind save a
slight irritation against Sukey.
Rita felt sure that Dic would come to see Tom that evening, and the red
ribbon was in evidence soon after supper. Dic did come, and there was at
least one happy girl on Blue.
THE SYCAMORE DIVAN