A CHRISTMAS HEARTH LOG
On the morning of Dic's departure, Billy Little advised him to invest
the proceeds of his expedition in goods at New York, and to ship them to
Madison.
"You see," said Billy, "you will make your profit going and coming, and
you will have a nice lump of gold when you return. Gold means Rita, and
Rita means happiness and ploughing."
"Not ploughing, Billy Little," interrupted Dic.
"We'll see what we will see," replied Billy. "Here is a list of goods I
advise you to buy, and the name of a man who will sell them to you at
proper prices. You can trust him. He wouldn't cheat even a friend.
Good-by, Dic. Write to me. Of course you will write to Rita?"
"Indeed I shall," replied Dic in a tone expressive of the fact that he
was a fine, true fellow, and would perform that pleasant duty with
satisfaction to himself and great happiness to the girl. You see, Dic's
great New York journey had caused him to feel his importance a bit.
"I wish you would go up to see her very often," continued our confident
young friend; "if I do say it myself, she will miss me greatly. When I
return, she shall go home with me. Mrs. Bays has almost given her
consent. You will go often, won't you, Billy Little? Next to me, I
believe she loves you best of all the world."
Billy watched Dic ride eastward on the Michigan road, and muttered to
himself:--
"'Next to me'; there is no next, you young fool." Then he went in to his
piano and caressed the keys till they yielded their ineffable sweetness
in the half-sad tones of Handel's "Messiah"; afterward, to lift his
spirits, they gave him a glittering sonata from Mozart. But it is better
to feel than to think. It is sweeter to weep than to laugh. So when he
was tired of the classics, he played over and over again, in weird,
minor, improvised variations, his love of loves, "Annie Laurie," and
tears came to his eyes because he was both happy and sad. The keys
seemed to whisper to him, so gently did he touch them, and their tones
fell, not upon his ears, but upon his heart, with a soothing pathos like
the sough of an old song or a sweet, forgotten odor of a day that is
past.
Billy did his best to console Rita, though it was a hopeless task and
full of peril for him. There was but one topic of interest to her. Rome
and Greece were dull. What cared she about the Romans? Dic was not a
Roman. Conversation upon books wearied her, and subjects that a few
months ago held her rapt attention, now threw her into revery. I am
sorry to say she was a silly, love-lorn young woman, and not in the
least entitled to the respect of strong-minded persons. I would not
advise you, my dear young girl, to assume Rita's faults; but if you
should do so, many a good, though misguided man will mistake them for
virtues and will fall at your feet. You will not deceive your sisters;
but you won't care much for their opinion.
* * * * *
Soon after Dic's departure, Jim Fisher, Mrs. Bays's brother, renewed his
offer to take Mr. Bays as a partner in the Indianapolis store. The offer
was a good one and was honestly made. Fisher needed more capital, and to
that extent his motive was selfish; but the business was prosperous, and
he could easily have found a partner.
One Saturday evening he came up to talk over the matter with his
brother-in-law. He took with him to Blue no less a person than Roger
Williams--not the original, redoubtable Roger who discovered Rhode
Island, but a descendant of his family. Williams was a man of
twenty-five. Boston was his home, and he was the son of a father
Williams who manufactured ploughs, spades, wagons, and other
agricultural implements. The young man was his father's western
representative, and Fisher sold his goods in the Indianapolis district.
He dressed well and was affable with his homespun friends. In truth, he
was a gentleman. He made himself at home in the cabin; but he had brains
enough to respect and not to patronize the good people who dwelt
therein.
Of course it will be useless for me to pretend that this young fellow
did not fall in love with Rita. If I had been responsible for his going
to Blue, you would be justified in saying that I brought him there for
the purpose of furnishing a rival to Dic; but I had nothing to do with
his going or loving, and take this opportunity to proclaim my innocence
of all such responsibility. He came, he stayed till Tuesday, and was
conquered. He came again two weeks later, and again, and still again. He
saw, but did he conquer? That is the great question this history is to
answer. Meantime Dic was leading a drove of untamed horses all day long,
and was sleeping sometimes at a wretched inn, sometimes in the pitiless
storm, and sometimes he was chasing stampeded horses for forty-eight
hours at a stretch without sleeping or eating. But when awake he thought
of Rita, and when he slept he dreamed of her, though in his dreams there
was no handsome city man, possessed of a fine house, servants, and
carriages, sitting by her side. Had that fact been revealed to him in a
dream, the horses might have stampeded to Jericho for all he would have
cared, and he would have stampeded home to look after more important
interests.
But to return to Fisher's visits. After supper, Saturday evening, the
question of the new store came up.
Fisher said: "If you can raise three thousand dollars, Tom, you may have
a half-interest in the business. I have three thousand dollars now
invested, and have credit for an additional three thousand with Mr.
Williams. If we had six thousand dollars, we may have credit for six
thousand more, twelve thousand in all, and we can easily turn our stock
twice a year. Tom, it's the chance of your life. Don't you think it is,
Margarita?"
"It looks that way, Jim," said Mrs. Bays; "but we haven't the three
thousand dollars, and we must think it over carefully and prayerfully."
"Can't you sell the farm or mortgage it?" suggested Fisher. Tom, Jr.,
gazed intently into the tree-tops, and, in so doing, led the others to
ask what he was seeking. There was nothing unusual to be seen among the
trees, and Mrs. Bays inquired:--
"What on earth are you looking for, Tom?"
"I was looking to see if there was anybody roosting up there, waiting to
buy this half-cleared old stump field."
"Tom's right," said his father. "I fear a purchaser will be hard to
find, and I don't know any one who would loan me three thousand dollars.
If we can find the money, we'll try it. What do you say, Margarita?"
Mrs. Bays was still inclined to be careful and prayerful.
Since Rita had expressed to Billy Little her desire to remove to
Indianapolis (on the day she bought the writing paper, which, by the
way, she had never paid for) so vast a change had taken place within
herself that she had changed her way of seeing nearly everything
outside. Especially had she changed the point of view from which she saw
the Indianapolis project, and she was now quite content to grow up "a
ragweed or a mullein stalk," if she could grow in Dic's fields, and be
cared for by his hand. I believe that when a woman loves a strong man
and contemplates marriage with him, as she is apt to do, a comforting
sense of his protecting care is no small part of her emotions. She may
not consider the matter of her daily bread and raiment, but she feels
that in the harbor of his love she will be safe from the manifold storms
and harms that would otherwise beset her.
Owing to Rita's great change the conversation on the porch was fraught
with a terrible interest. While the others talked, she, as in duty
bound,--girls were to be seen and not heard in those days,--remained
silent. Fortunately the fact that she was a girl did not preclude
thinking. That she did plenteously, and all lines of thought led to the
same question, "How will it affect Dic?" She could come to no
conclusion. Many times she longed to speak, but dared not; so she shut
her lips and her mind and determined to postpone discussing the question
with herself till she should be in bed where she could think quietly.
Meanwhile Williams seated himself beside her on the edge of the porch
and rejoiced over this beautiful rose he had found in the wilderness.
She being a simple country flower, he hoped to enjoy her fragrance for a
time without much trouble in the plucking, and it looked as though his
task would be an easy one. At first the girl was somewhat frightened at
his grandeur; but his easy, chatty conversation soon dispelled her
shyness, and she found him entertaining. He at first sight was charmed
by her beauty. He quickly discovered that her nose, chin, lips,
forehead, and complexion were faultless, and as for those wonderful
eyes, he could hardly draw his own away from them, even for a moment.
But after he had talked with her he was still more surprised to find her
not only bright, but educated, in a rambling way, to a degree little
expected in a frontier girl.
Williams was a Harvard man, and when he discovered that the girl by his
side could talk on subjects other than bucolic, and that she could
furthermore listen to him intelligently, he branched into literature,
art, travel, and kindred topics. She enjoyed hearing him talk, and
delighted him now and then with an apt reply. So much did her voice
charm him that he soon preferred it even to his own, and he found
himself concluding that this was not a wild forest rose at all, but a
beautiful domestic flower, worthy of care in the plucking. They had
several little tilts in the best of humor that confirmed Williams in the
growing opinion that the girl's beauty and strength were not all
physical. He talked much about Boston and its culture, and spoke
patronizingly of that unfortunate portion of the world's people who did
not enjoy the advantage of living within the sacred walls. Although Rita
knew that his boast was not all vain, and that his city deserved its
reputation, she laughed softly and said in apparent seriousness:--
"It is almost an education even to meet a person from Boston."
Williams looked up in surprise. He had not suspected that sarcasm could
lurk behind those wonderful eyes, but he was undeceived by her remark,
and answered laughingly:--
"That is true, Miss Bays."
"Boston has much to be proud of," continued the girl, surprised and
somewhat frightened at the rate she was bowling along. She had never
before talked so freely to any one but Billy Little and Dic. "Yes, all
good comes out of Boston. I've been told that if you hear her church
bells toll, your soul is saved. There is a saving grace in their very
tones. It came over in the _Mayflower_, as you might transport yeast. If
you walk through Harvard, you will be wise; if you stand on Bunker Hill,
treason flees your soul forever; and if you once gaze upon the Common,
you are safe from the heresy of the Quaker and the sin of witchcraft."
"I fear you are making a jest of Boston, Miss Bays," replied Williams,
who shared the sensitiveness peculiar to his people.
"No," she replied, "I jest only at your boasting. Your city is all you
claim for it; but great virtue needs no herald."
Williams remained silent for a moment, and then said, "Have you ever
been in Boston?"
"I? Indeed, no," she answered laughingly. "I've never been any place but
to church and once to a Fourth of July picnic. I was once at a church
social, but it brought me into great trouble and I shall never go to
another." Williams was amused and again remained, for a time, in silent
meditation. She did not interrupt him, and at length he spoke
stammeringly:--
"Pardon me--where did you learn--how comes it--I am speaking abruptly,
but one would suppose you had travelled and enjoyed many advantages that
you certainly could not have here."
"You greatly overestimate me, Mr. Williams. I have only a poor
smattering of knowledge which I absorbed from two friends who are really
educated men,--Mr. Little and Dic--Mr. Bright!"
"Are they old--elderly men?" asked Williams.
"One is," responded Rita.
"Which one?" he asked.
"Mr. Little."
"And the other--Mr. Bright--is he young?" asked the inquisitive
Bostonian. There was no need for Rita to answer in words. The color in
her cheeks and the radiance of her eyes told plainly enough that Mr.
Bright _was_ young. But she replied with a poor assumption of
indifference:--
"I think he is nearly five years older than I." There was another
betrayal of an interesting fact. She measured his age by hers.
"And that would make him--?" queried Williams.
"Twenty-two--nearly."
"Are you but seventeen?" he asked. Rita nodded her head and answered:--
"Shamefully young, isn't it? I used to be sensitive about my extreme
youth and am still a little so, but--but it can't be helped." Williams
laughed, and thought he had never met so charming a girl.
"Yes," he answered, "it is more or less a disgrace to be so young, but
it is a fault easily overlooked." He paused for a moment while he
inspected the heavens, and continued, still studying astronomy: "I mean
it is not easily overlooked in some cases. Sometimes it is 'a monster of
such awful mien' that one wishes to jump clear over the enduring and the
pitying, and longs to embrace."
"We often see beautiful sunsets from this porch," answered Rita, "and I
believe one is forming now." There was not a society lady in Boston who
could have handled the situation more skilfully; and Williams learned
that if he would flatter this young girl of the wilderness, he must
first serve his probation. She did not desire his flattery, and gave him
to understand as much at the outset. She found him interesting and
admired him. He was the first man of his type she had ever met. In the
matter of education he was probably not far in advance of Dic, and
certainly was very far arrear of Billy Little. But he had a certain
polish which comes only from city life. Billy had that polish, but it
was of the last generation, was very English, and had been somewhat
dimmed by friction with the unpolished surfaces about him. Dic's polish
was that of a rare natural wood.
As a result of these conditions, Rita and Williams walked up the river
on the following afternoon--Sunday. More by accident than design they
halted at the step-off and rested upon the same rocky knoll where she
and Dic were sitting when Doug Hill hailed them from the opposite bank
of the river. The scene was crowded with memories, and the girl's heart
was soon filled with Dic, while her thoughts were busy with the events
of that terrible day. Nothing that Williams might say could interest
her, and while he talked she listened but did not hear, for her mind was
far away, and she longed to be alone.
One would suppose that the memory of the day she shot Doug Hill would
have been filled with horror for her, but it was not. This gentle girl,
who would not willingly have killed a worm, and to whom the sight of
suffering brought excruciating pain, had not experienced a pang of
regret because of the part she had been called upon to play in the
tragedy of the step-off. When Doug was lying between life and death, she
hoped he would recover; but no small part of her interest in the result
was because of its effect upon Dic and herself. Billy Little had once
expressed surprise at this callousness, but she replied with a touch of
warmth:--
"I did right, Billy Little. Even mother admits that. I saved Dic's life
and my own honor. I would do it again. I am sorry I _had_ it to do, but
I am glad, oh so glad, that I had strength to do it. God helped me, or I
could never have fired the shot. You may laugh, Billy Little--I know
your philosophy leads you to believe that God never does things of that
sort--but I know better. You know a great deal more than I about
everything else, but in this instance I am wiser than you. I know God
gave me strength at the moment when I most needed it. That moment taught
me a lesson that some persons never learn. It taught me that God will
always give me strength at the last moment of my need, if I ask it of
Him, as I asked that day."
"He gave it to you when you were born, Rita," said Billy.
"No," she replied, "I am weak as a kitten, and always shall be, unless I
get my strength from Him."
"Well," said Billy, meaning no irreverence, "if He would not give to
you, He would not give to any one."
"Ah, Billy Little," said the girl, pleased by the compliment--you see
her pleasure in a compliment depended on the maker of it--"you think
every one admires me as much as you do." Billy knew that was impossible,
but for obvious reasons did not explain the true situation.
Other small matters served to neutralize the horror Rita might otherwise
have felt. The affair at the step-off had been freely talked about by
her friends in her presence, and the thought of it had soon become
familiar to her; but the best cure was her meeting with Doug Hill a
fortnight after the trial. It occurred on the square in the town of Blue
River. She saw Doug coming toward her, and was so shaken by emotions
that she feared she could not stand, but she recovered herself when he
said in his bluff manner:--
"Rita, I don't want to have no more fights with you. You're too quick on
trigger for Doug. But I want to tell you I don't hold no grudge agin'
you. You did jes' right. You orter a-killed me, but I'm mighty glad you
didn't. That shot of your'n was the best sermon I ever had preached to
me. I hain't tasted a drap of liquor since that day, and I never will.
I'm goin' to start to Illinoy to-morrow, and I'm goin' to get married
and be a man. Better marry me, Rita, and go along."
"I'm sure you will be a man, Doug," responded Rita. "I don't believe I
want to get married, but--but will you shake hands with me?"
"Bet I will, Rita. Mighty glad to. You've the best pluck of any girl on
yarth, with all you're so mild and kitten-like, and the purtiest girl,
too--yes, by gee, the purtiest girl in all the world. Everybody says so,
Rita." Rita blushed, and began to move away from his honest flattery, so
Doug said:--
"Well, good-by. Tell Dic good-by, and tell him I don't hold no grudge
agin' him neither. Hope he don't agin' me. He ortent to. He's got lots
the best of it--he won the fight and got you. Gee, I'd 'a' been glad to
lose the fight if I could 'a' got you."
Thus it happened that these two, who had last met with death between
them, parted as friends. Doug started for Illinois next day; and now he
drops out of this history.
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
senoritas 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