THE DEBUTANTE
A year after the small happenings I have just related, great events
began to cluster about Dic. They were truly great for him and of course
were great for Rita.
Through Billy Little's aid Dic received an offer from an eastern horse
buyer to lead a drove of horses to New York. The task was difficult, and
required a man of health, strength, judgment, and nerve. The trip going
would require two months, and the horses must be kept together, fed,
cared for, and, above all, protected night and day from horse thieves,
until after the Alleghanies were crossed. The horses were driven loose
in herds of one hundred or more. Three men constituted a crew. In this
instance Dic was to be in charge, and two rough horse-boys would be his
assistants. It would have been impossible to _drive_ the horses over the
fenceless roads and through the leagues of trackless forest; therefore,
they were led. The men would take turns about riding in advance, and the
man leading would continually whistle a single shrill note which the
horses soon learned to follow. Should the whistling cease for a moment,
the horses would stop and perhaps stampede. This might mean forty-eight
hours of constant work in gathering the drove, with perhaps the loss of
one or more. If you will, for one hour, whistle a shrill note loud
enough to reach the ears of a herd of trampling, neighing horses, you
will discover that even that task, which is the smallest part of horse
"leading," is an exhausting operation.
The work was hard, but the pay was good, and Dic was delighted with the
opportunity. One of its greatest attractions to him was the fact that he
would see something of the world. Billy Little urged him to accept the
offer.
"A man," said he, "estimates his own stature by comparing it with those
about him, and the most fatal mistake he can make is to underestimate
his size. Self-conceit is ugly, but it never injured any one. Modesty
would have ruined Napoleon himself. The measure of a man, like the
length of a cloth-yard, depends upon the standard. Go away from here,
Dic. Find your true standard. Measure yourself and return, if you wish.
This place is as good as another, if a man knows himself; if he doesn't,
he is apt to be deceived by the littleness of things about him. Yet
there are great things here, too--greater, in some respects, than any to
be found in New York; but the great things here are possibilities. Of
course, possibilities are but the raw material. They must be
manufactured--achieved. But achievement, my boy, achievement! that's the
whole thing, after all. What would Caesar Germanicus and Napoleon have
been without possibilities? A ready-made opportunity is a good thing in
its way, but it is the creation of opportunity out of crude
possibilities that really marks and makes the man and stamps the deed.
Any hungry fool would seize the opportunity to eat who might starve if
he had to make his bread. Go out into the world. You have good eyes. It
will not take long to open them. When they are opened, come back and you
will see opportunities here that will make you glad you are alive."
"But, Billy Little," replied Dic, who was sitting with Rita on the
sycamore divan, while their small elderly friend sat upon the grass
facing them, "you certainly have seen the world. Your eyes were opened
before you came here, and it seems to me your learning and culture are
buried here among the possibilities you speak of."
"No, Dic," answered Billy, "you see, I--well, I ran away from--from many
things. You see, you and I are cast in different moulds. You are six
feet tall, physically and temperamentally." Rita thought Billy was the
most acute observer in Christendom, but she did not speak, save with her
eyes. Those eyes nowadays were always talking.
"Six feet don't amount to much," responded Dic. "There is Doug Hill, who
is six feet three, with no more brains than a catfish. It is what's at
the top of the six feet that counts. You have more at the top of your
five feet four than the tallest man on Blue, and as I said, you seem to
be buried here. Where are the possibilities for you, Billy Little? And
if you can't achieve something great--poor me!"
"There are different possibilities for different men. I think, for
example, I have achieved something in you. What say you, Rita?"
The girl was taken unawares. "Indeed you have, glorious--splendid--that
is, I mean you have achieved something great in all of us whom you have
tried to influence. I see your possibilities, Billy Little. I see them
stamped upon the entire Blue River settlement. La Salle and Marquette,
of whom Dic read to me from your book, had the same sort of
opportunities. Their field was broader, but I doubt if their influence
will be more lasting than yours."
"Rather more conspicuous," laughed Billy.
"Yes," answered Rita, "your achievements will not be recorded. Their
effect will probably be felt by all of us, and the achievement must be
your only reward."
"It is all I ask," returned Billy. Then, after a pause, he spoke in
mock reproof to Dic, "Now, hang your head in shame."
"I suppose it's my turn," Dic replied.
"The achievements of picturesque men only should be placarded to the
world," said Billy. "The less said about a little old knot like me the
better for--better for the knot."
"You are not a knot," cried Rita indignantly.
"Rita," said Dic, "you know the walnut knot, while it shows the roughest
bark, has the finest grain in the tree."
"I am going home if you don't stop that sort of talking," said Billy,
pleased to his toes, but pretending to be annoyed.
A fortnight before Dic's intended departure for New York an opportunity
presented itself of which the young man, after due consideration,
determined to take advantage. He walked over one evening to see Tom,
but, as usual, found Rita. After a few minutes in which to work his
courage up, he said:--
"There is to be a church social at Scott's to-morrow night--the
Baptists. I wonder if you would like--that is, would want to--would be
willing to go with me?"
"I would be glad to go," answered the girl; "but mother won't let me."
"We'll go in and ask her, if you wish," he replied.
"There's no use, but we can try. Perhaps if she thinks I don't want to
go, she will consent."
Into the house they went, and Dic made his wants known to the head of
the family.
"No," snapped the good lady, "she can't go. Girls of sixteen and
seventeen nowadays think they are young ladies."
"They are dull, anyway," said Rita, referring to church socials. "I have
heard they are particularly dull at Scott's--the Baptists are so
religious. Sukey Yates said they did nothing but preach and pray and
sing psalms and take up a collection at the last social Scott gave.
It's just like church, and I don't want to go anyway." She had never
been to a church social, but from what she had heard she believed them
to be bacchanalian scenes of riotous enjoyment, and her remarks were
intended to deceive.
"You should not speak so disrespectfully of the church," said the Chief
Justice, sternly. "The Lord will punish you for it, see if He doesn't.
Since I think about it, the socials held at Scott's are true, religious,
God-fearing gatherings, and you shall go as a punishment for your
sacrilegious sneers. Perhaps if you listen to the Word, it may come back
after many days." Margarita, Sr., often got her Biblical metaphors
mixed, but that troubled her little. There was, she thought, virtue in
scriptural quotations, even though entirely inapplicable to the case in
point.
"Come for her to-morrow evening, Dic," said Mrs. B. "She shall be
ready." Then turning to Rita: "To speak of the Holy Word in that manner!
You shall be punished."
Dic and Rita went out to the porch. Dic laughed, but the girl saw
nothing funny.
"It seems to me just as if I had told a story," she said. "One may act a
story as easily as tell it."
"Well, you are to be punished," laughed Dic.
"But you know I want to go. I have never been to a social, and it will
not punish me to go."
"Then you are to be punished by going with me," returned the stalwart
young fisherman. She looked up to him with a flash of her eyes--those
eyes were worse than a loose tongue for tattling--and said:--
"That is true."
Dic, who was fairly boiling with pleasant anticipations, went to town
next day and boiled over on Billy Little.
"I'm going to take Rita to Scott's social this evening," he said.
"Ah, indeed," responded Billy; "it's her first time out, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I envy her, by George, I do, and I envy you," said Billy. He did not
envy Dic; but you may remember my remarks concerning bachelor hearts and
their unprotected condition in this cruel world. There may be pain of
the sort Billy felt without either envy or jealousy.
"Dic, I have a mind to send Rita a nice ribbon or two for to-night. What
do you think about it?" asked Billy.
"She would be delighted," answered Dic. "She would accept them from you,
but not from me."
"There is no flattery in that remark," answered Billy, with a touch of
sharpness.
"Why, Billy Little, what do you suppose I meant?" asked Dic.
"I know you spoke the truth. She would accept a present from the little
old knot, but would refuse it from the straight young tree."
"Why, Billy Little, I meant nothing of the sort."
"Now, not another word," interrupted Billy. "Give these ribbons to her
when you ride home, and tell her the knot sends them to the sweetbrier."
Then turning his face to the shelves on the wall, and arranging a few
pieces of goods, he hummed under his breath his favorite stanza,
"Maxwelton's braes," and paid no further attention to his guest.
Rita came out as Dic rode up to the gate. He did not dismount, but
handed her the ribbons across the fence, saying: "Billy Little sends you
these for to-night. He said they were from the knot to the sweetbrier."
The girl's suppressed delight had been troubling her all day. Her first
party, her first escort, and that escort Dic! What more could a girl
desire? The ribbons were too much. And somebody was almost ready to weep
for joy. She opened the little package and her eyes sparkled. When she
felt that speech was entirely safe, she said:--
"The little package is as prim and neat as Billy Little himself. Dear,
sweet, old Billy Little."
Dic, whose heart was painfully inflamed, was almost jealous of Billy,
and said:--
"I suppose you would not have accepted them from me?"
"Why not?" she responded. "Of course I would." Her eyes grew wide when
she looked up to him and continued, "Did you get them for me and tell me
that Billy Little sent them?"
"No," answered Dic, regretfully, as he began to see possibilities, even
on Blue. One possibility, at least, he saw clearly--one that he had
lost.
"It was more than a possibility," he said to himself, as he rode
homeward. "It was a ready-made opportunity, and I did not see it. The
sooner I go to New York or some place else and get my eyes opened, the
better it will be for me."
* * * * *
The church social opened with a long, sonorous prayer by the Baptist
preacher, Mr. Wetmore. Then followed a psalm, which in turn was followed
by a "few words." After the few words, Rev. Wetmore said in soft,
conciliatory tones, "Now, brethren, if Deacon Moore will be so kind as
to pass the hat, we will receive the offering."
Wetmore was not an ordained minister, nor was he recognized by the
church to which he claimed to belong. He was one of the many itinerant
vagabonds who foisted themselves upon isolated communities solely for
the sake of the "offering."
Deacon Moore passed his hat, and when he handed it to Wetmore that
worthy soul counted out two large copper pennies. There were also in the
hat two brass buttons which Tom, much to Sukey's amusement, had torn
from his clothing for the purpose of an offering. Sukey laughed so
inordinately at Tom's extravagant philanthropy that she convinced De
Triflin' he was a very funny fellow indeed; but she brought upon her
pretty flaxen head a reprimand from Wetmore.
"Undue levity," said he, "ill becomes even frivolous youth at this
moment. Later you will have ample opportunity to indulge your mirth; but
for the present, the Lord's business--" at the word "business" he
received the hat from Deacon Moore, and looked eagerly into it for the
offering. Disappointment, quite naturally, spread itself over his sallow
face, and he continued: "Buttons do not constitute an acceptable
offering to the Lord. He can have no use for them. I think that during
the course of my life work in the vineyard I have received a million
buttons of which I--I mean the Lord--can have no possible use. If these
buttons had been dollars or shillings, or even pennies, think of the
blessings they would have brought from above."
The reverend man spoke several times with excusable asperity of
"buttons," and after another psalm and a sounding benediction the
religious exercises were finished, and the real business of the evening,
the spelling-bee and the kissing games, began.
At these socials many of the old folks took part in the spelling-bee,
after which they usually went home--an event eagerly awaited by the
young people.
There was but one incident in the spelling-bee that touched our friends,
and I shall pass briefly over that part of the entertainment preceding
it. The class, ranging in years from those who lisped in youth to those
who lisped in age, stood in line against the wall, and Wetmore,
spelling-book in hand, stood in front of them to "give out" the words.
It was not considered fair to give out a word not in the spelling-book
until the spelling and "syllabling" of sentences was commenced. All
words were syllabled, but to spell and syllable a sentence was not an
easy task, and by the time sentences were reached the class usually had
dwindled down to three or four of the best spellers. Of course, one who
missed a word left the class. Our friends--Billy Little, Dic, Rita, and
Sukey Yates--were in the contest.
The first word given out was metropolitan, and it fell to Douglas of the
Hill. He began: "M-e-t--there's your met; r-o--there's your ro; there's
your metro; p-o-l--there's your pol; there's your ro-pol; there's your
met-ro-pol; i--there's your i; there's your pol-i; there's your
ro-pol-i; there's your met-ro-pol-i; t-e-n--there's your--" "t-a-n,"
cried the girl next to him, who happened to be Sukey Yates, and Douglas
stepped down and out.
A score or more of words were then spelled without an error, until
Constantinople fell to the lot of an elderly man who stood by Rita. He
began: "C-o-n--there's your Con; s-t-a-n--there's your stan; there's
your Con-stan; t-i--there's your ti; there's your stan-ti; there's your
Con-stan-ti; n-o--there's your no; there's your ti-no; there's your
stan-ti-no; there's your Con-stan-ti-no; p-e-l--there's your pell;
there's your no--"--"p-l-e--there's your pell" (so pronounced); "there's
your Con-stan-ti-no-ple," chimed Rita, and her elderly neighbor took a
chair. Others of the class dropped out, leaving only our four
acquaintances,--Dic, Billy, Sukey, and Rita. Dic went out on "a" in
place of "i" in collectible, Sukey turning him down. Rita had hoped he
would win the contest and had determined, should it narrow down to
herself and him, to miss intentionally, if need be. After Dic had taken
a chair, judgment fell to and upon Sukey. She began "j-u-d-g-e--there's
your judge;" whereupon Billy Little said, "Sink the e," and Sukey sank,
leaving Billy Little and Rita standing against the wall, as if they were
about to be married. Billy, of course, was only awaiting a good
opportunity to fail in order that the laurels of victory might rest upon
Rita's brow.
"We will now spell and syllable a few sentences," said Wetmore. "Mr.
Little, I give you the sentence, 'An abominable bumblebee with his tail
cut off.'"
It must be remembered that in spelling these words and sentences each
syllable was pronounced separately and roundly. B-o-m was a full grown,
sonorous bom. B-u-m was a rolling bum, and b-l-e was pronounced bell
with a strong, full, ringing, liquid sound. The following italics show
the emphasis. Billy slowly repeated the sentence and began:--
"A-n--there's your an; a--there's your a; there's your an-a;
b-o-m--there's your _bom_; there's your _a_-bom; there's your
_an_-a-_bom_; i--there's your i; there's your _bom_-i; there's your
_a_-bom-i; there's your _an_-a-bom-i; n-a--there's your na; there's your
_i_-na; there's your _bom_-i-na; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_; there's
your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_; b-l-e--there's your bell; there's your
_na_-bell; there's your _i_-na-bell; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell;
there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-bell; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell;
b-u-m--there's your bum; there's your _bell_-bum; there's your
_na_-bell-bum; there's your _i_-na-_bell_-bum; there's your
_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-_bell_-_bum_;
there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_; b-l-e--there's your bell;
there's your _bum_-bell; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_; there's your
_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your _i_-na-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your
_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your
_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your
_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; b-e-e--there's your bee; there's
your _bell_-bee; there's your _bum_-bell-bee; there's your
_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee; there's
your _i_-na-bell-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your
_bom_-i-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your
_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your_an_-a-bom-i-_na_
bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee; w-i-t-h--h-i-s--there's your with-his; there's
your _bee_-with-his; there's your _bell_-bee-with-his; there's your
_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his;
there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your
_i_-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-_bee_-with-his; there's your
_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your
_a_-_bom_-i-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your
_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; t-a-l-e--there's
your--" But Rita chimed in at once: "T-a-i-l--there's your tail; there's
your _with_-his-tail; there's your _bee_-with-his-tail; there's your
_bell_-bee-with-his-_tail_; there's your _bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail;
there's your _bell_-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your
_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your
_i_-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail; there's your
_bom_-i-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail; there's your
_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your
_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; c-u-t--there's
your cut; there's your _tail_-cut; there's your _with_-his-tail-cut;
there's your _bee_-with-his-tail-cut; there's your
_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your
_bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your
_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your
_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your
_i_-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-_tail_-cut; there's your
_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-_bee_-with-his -_tail_-cut; there's your
_a_-bom-i-_na_-_bell_-bum -_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-_cut_; there's your
_an_-a-_bom_ -i-_na_-bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut;
o-f-f--there's your off; there's your _cut_-off; there's your
_tail_-cut-off; there's your _with_-_his_-tail-cut-off; there's your
_bee_-with -his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_i_-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your
_an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with his-tail-cut-_off_," and
Rita took her seat, filled with triumph, save for the one regret that
Dic had not won.
Many of the old folks, including Billy Little, departed when the bee
closed, and a general clamor went up for the kissing games to begin.
Rita declined to take part in the kissing games, and sat against the
wall with several other young ladies who had no partners. To Dic she
gave the candid reason that she did not want to play, and he was glad.
Doug Hill, who, in common with every other young man on the premises,
ardently desired Rita's presence in the game, said:--
"Oh, come in, Rita. Don't be so stuck up. It won't hurt you to be
kissed." Doug was a bold, devil-may-care youth, who spoke his mind
freely upon all occasions. He was of enormous size, and gloried in the
fact that he was the neighborhood bully and very, very "tough." Doug
would have you know that Doug would drink; Doug would gamble; Doug would
fight. He tried to create the impression that he was very bad indeed,
and succeeded. He would go to town Saturdays, "fill up," as he called
getting drunk, and would ride furiously miles out of his way going home
that he might pass the houses of his many lady-loves, and show them by
yells and oaths what a rollicking blade he was. The reputation thus
acquired won him many a smile; for, deplore the fact as we may, there's
a drop of savage blood still alive in the feminine heart that does not
despise depravity in man as it really should.
"Come into the game," cried Doug, taking Rita by the arm, and dragging
her toward the centre of the room.
"I don't want to play," cried the girl. "Please let loose of my arms;
you hurt me," but Doug continued to drag her toward the ring of players
that was forming, and she continued to resist. Doug persisted, and after
a moment of struggling she called out, "Dic, Dic!" She had been
accustomed since childhood to call upon that name in time of trouble,
and had always found help. Dic would not have interfered had not Rita
called, but when she did he responded at once.
"Let her alone, Hill," said Dic, as pleasantly as possible under the
circumstances. "If she doesn't want to play, she doesn't have to."
"You go to--" cried Doug. "Maybe you think you can run over me, you
stuck-up Mr. Proper."
"I don't want to do anything of the sort," answered Dic; "but if you
don't let loose of Rita's arm, I'll--"
"What will you do?" asked Doug, laughing uproariously.
For a moment Dic allowed himself to grow angry, and said, "I'll knock
that pumpkin off your shoulders," but at once regretted his words.
Doug thought Dic's remark very funny, and intimated as much. Then he
bowed his head in front of our hero and said, "Here is the pumpkin; hit
it if you dare."
Dic restrained an ardent desire, and Doug still with bowed head
continued, "I'll give you a shillin' if you'll hit it, and if you don't,
I'll break your stuck-up face."
Dic did not accept the shilling, which was not actually tendered in
lawful coin, but stepped back from Doug that he might be prepared for
the attack he expected. After waiting what he considered to be a
reasonable time for Dic to accept his offer, Doug started toward our
hero, looking very ugly and savage. Dic was strong and brave, but he
seemed small beside his bulky antagonist, and Rita, frightened out of
all sense of propriety, ran to her champion, and placing her back
against his breast, faced Doug with fear and trembling. The girl was not
tall enough by many inches to protect Dic's face from the breaking Doug
had threatened; but what she lacked in height she made up in terror,
and she looked so "skeert," as Doug afterwards said, that he turned upon
his heel with the remark:--
"That's all right. I was only joking. We don't want no fight at a church
social, do we, Dic?"
"I don't particularly want to fight any place," replied Dic, glad that
the ugly situation had taken a pleasant turn.
"Reckon you don't," returned Doug, uproariously, and the game proceeded.
Partly from disinclination, and partly because he wanted to talk to
Rita, Dic did not at first enter the game, but during an intermission
Sukey whispered to him:--
"We are going to play Drop the Handkerchief, and if you'll come in I'll
drop it behind you every time, and--" here the whispers became very low
and soft, "I'll let you catch me, too. We'll make pumpkin-head sick."
The game of skill known as "Drop the Handkerchief" was played in this
fashion: a circle of boys and girls was formed in the centre of the
room, each person facing the centre. One of the number was chosen "It."
"It's" function was to walk or run around the circle and drop the
handkerchief behind the chosen one. If "It" happened to be a young man,
the chosen one, of course, was a young woman who immediately started in
pursuit. If she caught the young man before he could run around the
circle to the place she had vacated, he must deposit a forfeit, to be
redeemed later in the evening. In any case she became the next "It." A
young lady "It" of course dropped the handkerchief behind a young man,
and equally, of course, started with a scream of frightened modesty
around the circle of players, endeavoring to reach, if possible, the
place of sanctuary left vacant by the young man. He started in pursuit,
and if he caught her--there we draw the veil. If the young lady were
anxious to escape, it was often possible for her to do so. But thanks to
Providence, all hearts were not so obdurate as Rita's. I would say,
however, in palliation of the infrequency of escapes, that it was looked
upon as a serious affront for a young lady to run too rapidly. In case
she were caught and refused to pay the forfeit, her act was one of
deadly insult gratuitously offered in full view of friends and
acquaintances.
Dic hesitated to accept Sukey's invitation, though, in truth, it would
have been inviting to any man of spirit. Please do not understand me to
say that Dic was a second Joseph, nor that he was one who would run away
from a game of any sort because a pretty Miss Potiphar or two happened
to be of the charmed and charming circle.
He had often been in the games, and no one had ever impugned his spirit
of gallantry by accusing him of unseemly neglect of the beautiful Misses
P. His absence from this particular game was largely due to the fact
that the right Miss Potiphar was sitting against the wall.
A flush came to Rita's cheek, and she moved uneasily when she saw Sukey
whispering to Dic; but he did not suspect that Rita cared a straw what
Sukey said. Neither did it occur to him that Rita would wish him to
remain out of the game. He could, if he entered the game, make Doug Hill
"sick," as Sukey had suggested, and that was a consummation devoutly to
be wished. He did not wish to subject himself to the charge of
ungallantry; and Sukey was, as you already know, fair to look upon, and
her offer was as generous as she could make under the circumstances. So
he chose a young lady, left Rita by the wall, and entered the game.
Doug Hill happened to be "It" and dropped the handkerchief behind Sukey,
whereupon that young lady walked leisurely around the circle, making no
effort to capture the Redoubtable. Such apathy was not only an
infringement of the etiquette of the game, but might, if the injured
party were one of high spirits, be looked upon as an insult.
Sukey then became "It," and, dropping the handkerchief behind Dic,
deliberately waited for him to catch her; when, of course, a catastrophe
ensued. Meantime, the wall was growing uncomfortable to Rita. She had
known in a dimly conscious way that certain things always happened at
country frolics, but to _see_ them startled her, and she began to feel
very miserable. Her tender heart fluttered piteously with a hundred
longings, chief among which was the desire to prevent further
catastrophes between Dic and Sukey.
Compared to Sukey, there was no girl in the circle at all entitled to be
ranked in the Potiphar class of beauty. So, when Dic succeeded Sukey as
"It," he dropped the handkerchief behind her. Then she again chose Dic,
and in turn became the central figure in a catastrophe that was painful
to the girl by the wall. If Rita had been in ignorance of her real
sentiments for Dic, that ignorance had, within the last few minutes,
given place to a knowledge so luminous that it was almost blinding. The
room seemed to become intensely warm. Meantime the play went on, and the
process of making Doug "sick" continued with marked success. Sukey
always favored Dic, and he returned in kind. This alternation, which was
beyond all precedent, soon aroused a storm of protests.
"If you want to play by yourselves," cried Tom, "why don't you go off by
yourselves?"
"Yes," cried the others; "if you can't play fair, get out of the game."
The order of events was immediately changed, but occasionally Sukey
broke away from time-honored precedent and repeated her favors to Dic.
Doug was rapidly growing as "sick" as his most inveterate enemy could
have desired. There was another person in the room who was also very
wretched--one whom Dic would not have pained for all the Sukey
Potiphars in Egypt. The other person was not only pained, she was
grieved, confused, frightened, desperate. She feared that she would cry
out and ask Dic not to favor Sukey. She did not know what to do, nor
what she might be led to do, if matters continued on their present
course.
Soon after Tom's reprimand, Sukey found the duty of dropping the
handkerchief again devolving upon her pretty self. She longed with all
her heart to drop it behind Dic; but, fearing the wrath of her friends,
she concluded to choose the man least apt to arouse antagonism in Dic's
breast. She would choose one whom he knew she despised, and would trust
to luck and her swift little feet to take her around the circle before
the dropee could catch her.
Wetmore had been an active member, though a passive participant, in the
game, since its beginning. When a young lady "It" walked back of him, he
would eagerly watch her approach, and when she passed him, as all did,
he would turn his face after her and hope for better things from the
next. Repeated disappointments had lulled his vigil, and when Sukey, the
girl of all others for whom he had not hoped, dropped the sacred linen
behind his reverend form, he was so startled that he did not seize the
precious moment. He was standing beside Doug Hill, and the handkerchief
fell almost between the two. It was clearly intended for his reverence;
but when he failed instantly to meet the requirements of the situation,
the Douglas, most alert of men, resolved to appropriate the opportunity
to himself. At the same moment Brother W. also determined to embrace it,
and, if possible, "It." Each stooped at the same instant, and their
heads collided.
"Let it alone, parson, it's for me," cried the Douglas.
Parson did not answer, but reached out his hand for the coveted prize.
Thereupon Douglas pushed him backward, causing him to be seated with
great violence upon the floor. At that unfortunate moment Sukey, who had
taken speed from eagerness, completed her trip around the circle, and
being unable to stop, fell headlong over the figure of the self-made
parson. She had not seen Doug's part in the transaction, and being much
disturbed in mind and dress, turned upon poor Wetmore and flung at the
worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, "You fool."
When we consider the buttons in the offering, together with Sukey's
unjust and biting words, we cannot help believing that Wetmore had been
born under an unlucky star.
One's partner in this game was supposed to favor one now and then, when
opportunity presented; but Wetmore's partner, Miss Tompkinson, having
waited in vain for favors from that gentleman, quitted the game when
Sukey called him, "You fool." Wetmore thought, of course, he also would
be compelled to drop out; but, wonder of wonders, Rita, the most
beautiful girl in the room, rose to her feet and said:--
"I'll take your place, Miss Tompkinson." She knew that if she were in
the game, Sukey's reign would end, and she had reached the point of
perturbation where she was willing to do anything to prevent the
recurrence of certain painful happenings. She knew that she should not
take part in the game,--it was not for such as her,--but she was
confused, desperate, and "didn't care." She modestly knew her own
attractions. Every young man in the circle was a friend of Tom's, and
had at some time manifested a desire to be a friend to Tom's sister. Tom
was fairly popular for his own sake, but his exceeding radiance was
borrowed. The game could not be very wicked, thought Rita, since it was
encouraged by the church; but even if it were wicked, she determined to
take possession of her own in the person of Dic. Out of these several
impulses and against her will came the words, "I'll take your place,
Miss Tompkinson," and almost before she was aware of what she had done
she was standing with fiercely throbbing pulse, a member of the
forbidden circle.
[Illustration: "SHE FLUNG AT THE WORTHY SHEPHERD THE OPPROBRIOUS WORDS,
'YOU FOOL.'"]
As Rita had expected, the handkerchief soon fell behind her, and without
the least trouble she caught the young fellow who had dropped it, for
the man did not live who could run from her. The pledge, a pocket-knife,
was deposited, and Rita became a trembling, terrified "It." What to do
with the handkerchief she did not know, but she started desperately
around the circle. After the fourth or fifth trip the players began to
laugh. Dic's heart was doing a tremendous business, and he felt that
life would be worthless if the handkerchief should fall from Rita's hand
behind any one but him. Meanwhile the frightened girl walked round and
round the circle, growing more confused with every trip.
"Drop it, Rita," cried Doug Hill, "or you'll drop."
"She's getting tired," said another.
"See how warm she is," remarked gentle Tom.
"Somebody fan her," whispered Sukey.
"I don't believe I want to play," said Rita, whose cheeks were burning.
A chorus of protests came from all save Dic; so she took up her burden
again and of course must drop it. After another long weary walk an
inspiration came to her; she would drop the handkerchief behind Tom. She
did so. Tom laughed, and all agreed with one accord that it was against
the rules of the game to drop the handkerchief behind a brother or
sister. Then Rita again took up her burden, which by that time was a
heavy one indeed. She had always taken her burdens to Dic, so she took
this one to him and dropped it.
"I knew she would," screamed every one, and Rita started in dreadful
earnest on her last fatal trip around the circle. A moment before the
circle had been too small, but now it seemed interminable, and poor
Rita found herself in Dic's strong arms before she was halfway home. She
almost hated him for catching her. She did not take into consideration
the facts that she had invited him and that it would have been ungallant
had he permitted her to escape, but above all, she did not know the
desire in his heart. She had surprised and disappointed him by entering
the game; but since it was permitted, he would profit by the surprise
and snatch a joyful moment from his disappointment. But another surprise
awaited him. When a young lady was caught a certain degree of
resistance, purely for form's sake, was expected, but usually the young
lady would feel aggrieved, or would laugh at the young man were the
resistance taken seriously. When Dic caught Rita there was one case, at
least, where the resistance was frantically real. She covered her face
with her hands and supposed he would make no effort to remove them. She
was mistaken, he acted upon the accepted theories of the game. She was a
baby in strength compared with Dic, and he easily held her hands while
he bent her head backward till her upturned face was within easy reach.
"Don't kiss me," she cried.
There was no sham in her words, and Dic, recognizing the fact, released
her at once and she walked sullenly to a chair. According to the rude
etiquette of the time, she had insulted him.
There had been so many upheavals in the game that the trouble between
Dic and Rita brought it to a close.
Dic was wounded, and poor Rita felt that now she had driven him from her
forever. Her eyes followed him about the room with wistful longing, and
although they were eloquent enough to have told their piteous little
story to one who knew anything about the language of great tender eyes,
they spoke nothing but reproachfulness to Dic. He did not go near her,
but after a time she went to him and said:--
"I believe I will go home; but I am not afraid to go alone, and you need
not go with me--that is, if you don't want to."
"I do want to go with you," he responded. "I would not let you ride by
yourself. Even should nothing harm you, the howling of a wolf would
frighten you almost to death."
She had no intention of riding home alone. She knew she would die from
fright before she had ridden a hundred yards into the black forest, so
she said demurely:--
"Of course, if you will go with me after--"
"I would go with you after anything," he answered, but she thought he
spoke with a touch of anger.
Had Dic ever hoped to gain more than a warm friendship from the girl
that hope had been shattered for all time, and never, never, never would
he obtrude his love upon her again. As a matter of fact, he had not
obtruded it upon her even once, but he had thought of doing it so many
times that he felt as if he had long been an importunate suitor.
UNDER THE ELM CANOPY