THE TOURNAMENT
Mr. Bays, rash man that he was, without care or prayer, accepted Dic's
loan and was thankful, despite the good wife's effort to convince him he
was conferring a favor. Her remarks had been much more convincing to Dic
than to her husband. The latter could not entirely throw off the feeling
that Dic was doing him a favor.
The money was to be delivered and the note executed in ten days, Mrs.
Margarita insisting that Dic should be responsible for his own money
until it was needed by her husband.
"He certainly would not ask us to be responsible for his money till we
can use it," she observed, in an injured tone, to her daughter. One
would have supposed from her attitude that an imposition was being put
upon her, though she, herself, being accustomed to bear the burdens of
others, would bow her neck beneath this yoke and accept the
responsibility of Dic's money. She not only convinced herself that such
was the proper view to take of the transaction, but succeeded fairly
well in impressing even Rita with that belief. Such an achievement
required generalship of the highest order; but Mrs. Bays possessed that
rare quality to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled.
The loan was to bear no interest, Dic hoping to heighten the sense of
obligation in Mr. Bays. He succeeded; but of course the important member
of the family still felt that Dic was beholden to her. She could not,
however, with either safety or justice, exclude from her house the man
who was to lend the much-needed money. While she realized the great
favor she was conferring on Dic, and fully understood the nature of the
burden she was taking upon herself solely for his sake, she had no
thought of shrinking from her duty;--not she. The money had not been
delivered, and Dic, if offended, might change his mind and foolishly
refuse her sacrifice. It might not be entirely safe to presume too
largely upon his sense of obligation--some persons are devoid of
gratitude--until the money was in hand. For these reasons Dic was
tolerated, and during the next ten days spent his evenings with Rita,
though mother and father Bays did not migrate to the kitchen, in
accordance with well-established usage on Blue, and as they had done
when Williams came a-wooing. Dic cared little for the infringement, and
felt that old times had come again. Rita, growing bold, braved her
mother's wrath, and continued each evening to give him a moment of his
own. One evening it would be a drink from the well that she wanted.
Again, it was a gourdful of shell-barks from the cellar under the
kitchen, whence she, of course, was afraid to fetch them alone. The most
guileless heart will grow adroit under certain well-known conditions;
and even Rita, the simplest of girls, easily made opportunities to give
Dic these little moments from which she came back rosy, while that lucky
young man was far from discontented.
Rita paid each evening for Dic's moment when the door closed on him, and
continued payment during the next day till his return. But she
considered the moment a great bargain at the price, continued her
purchases, and paid the bills on demand to incarnate Justice. The bills
were heavy, and had not Rita been encased by an armor of trusty steel,
wrought from the links of her happiness, her soft, white form would
have been pierced through and through by the tough, ashen shafts of her
mother's relentless cruelty.
We are apt to feel pain and suffering comparatively. To one who has
experienced a great agony, smaller troubles seem trivial. Rita had
experienced her great agony, and her mother's thrusts were but needle
pricks compared with it.
* * * * *
Arrangements were quickly made for moving to Indianapolis, and at the
end of ten days all was ready for the money to be delivered. Dic again
asked for Rita, and Mr. Bays was for delivering the girl at once. His
new venture at Indianapolis had stimulated his sense of self-importance,
and he insisted, with a temerity never before dared, that Dic, whom he
truly loved, should have the daughter whom they each loved. But the
Chief Justice would agree to nothing more than an extension of the
armistice, and graciously consented that Dic might visit the _family_ at
Indianapolis once in a while.
After Dic had agreed to lend the money, he at once notified Billy
Little, in whose strong-box it was stored. Dic, in the course of their
conversation, expressed to Billy the sense of obligation he felt to the
Bayses.
"I declare," vowed Billy, "that old woman is truly great. When she goes
to heaven, she will convince St. Peter that she is doing him a favor by
entering the pearly gates. Neither will she go in unless everything
suits her. There is not another like her. Archimedes said he could lift
the world with a lever if he had a fulcrum. Undiluted egotism is the
fulcrum. But one must actually believe in one's self to be effective.
One cannot impose a sham self-faith upon the world. Only the man who
believes his own lie can lie convincingly. Egad! Dic, it would have been
beautiful to see that self-sufficient old harridan attempting to
convince you that she was conferring a favor by taking your money. You
will probably never see a fippenny bit of it again. And without
interest! Jove! I say it was beautiful. Had she wanted your liver, I
suppose you would have thanked her for accepting it. She is a wonder."
These remarks opened Dic's eyes and convinced him that the New York trip
had not effaced all traces of unsophistication.
In those days of weak strong-boxes and numerous box-breakers, men
hesitated to assume the responsibility of taking another's gold for
safe-keeping. There could be no profit to Billy Little in Dic's gold. He
took it to keep for him only because he loved him. The sum total of
Billy's wealth, aside from his stock of goods valued at a thousand
dollars, consisted of notes, secured by mortgages, amounting to four
thousand dollars. Of this sum he had lent five hundred dollars to Dic,
who had repaid him in gold. The money had been placed in Billy Little's
strong-box with Dic's twenty-six hundred dollars. Each sum of gold was
contained in a canvas shot-bag. Of course news of Dic's wealth had
spread throughout the town and country, and had furnished many a
pleasant hour of conversation among persons with whom topics were
scarce.
Late one night Billy Little's slumbers were disturbed by a noise in the
store, and his mind at once turned to the gold. He rose quickly, seized
his shot-gun, and opened the door leading into the storeroom just in
time to see two men climb out through the open window near the
post-office boxes. Billy ran to the window and saw the men a hundred
yards away. He climbed out and hurried in pursuit, but the men were soon
out of sight, and Billy returned shivering to the store. He could see by
the dim light from the window that the doors of his strong-box were
standing open. There was no need to examine the box. Billy well knew the
gold had vanished. He shut the iron doors and went back to his room,
poked the fire, seated himself at the piano, and for the next hour ran
through his favorite repertoire, closing the concert with "Annie
Laurie." Then he went to bed and slept like an untroubled child till
morning.
The safe had been unlocked by means of a false key. There were no
visible signs of robbery, and Billy Little determined to tell no one of
his loss. The first question that confronted him in the morning was,
what should be done about the loss of Dic's gold? That proposition he
quickly settled. He went across the road to the inn, got his breakfast,
returned to his room, donned his broadcloth coat, made thirty years
before in London, took from his strong-box notes to the amount of
twenty-six hundred dollars, and left for Indianapolis by the noon stage.
At Indianapolis he sold the notes and brought back Dic's gold. This he
kept in his iron box during the day and under his pillow at night.
* * * * *
The household effects of the Bays family were placed in two wagons to be
taken to Indianapolis. Dic had offered to drive one team, and Tom was to
drive the other. Mr. Bays had preceded the family by a day or two; but
before leaving he and Dic had gone to Billy Little's store for the
money. Dic, of course, knew nothing of the robbery. Billy had privately
advised his young friend to lend the money payable on demand.
"You should buy a farm when a good opportunity offers," said he. "Land
hereabouts will increase in value a hundred per cent in ten years. You
should not tie up your money for a long time."
Billy made the same representation to Bays, and that gentleman, eager to
get the money on any terms, agreed with him. Little's real, though
unspoken, reason was this: he felt that if Dic held a debt against Bays,
collectible upon demand, it would be a protection against Mrs.
Margarita's too keen sense of justice, and might prove an effective help
in winning Rita from the icy dragoness. Therefore, the note was drawn
payable on demand. When Mrs. Bays learned that fact, she named over to
her spouse succinctly the various species of fool of which he was the
composite representative. The satisfaction she felt in unbosoming
herself was her only reward, for the note remained collectible on
demand.
The weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. So
it had been determined that Rita and her mother should travel to
Indianapolis by the stage coach. But when the wagons were ready to
start, at sun-up, Mrs. Bays being in bed, Rita basely deserted that
virtuous woman and climbed over the front wheel to the seat beside Dic.
She left a note for her mother, saying that she would go with the wagon
to save the seven shilling stage fare. She knew she was making a heavy
purchase of "moments," and was sure she would be called upon for instant
payment that night when she should meet her mother. She was willing to
pay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of Phoebus would
have been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereon
she rode.
The sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filled
with glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed Blue on the ice at
the ford below Bays's barn. The horses' breath came from their nostrils
like steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozen
snow, seemed to laugh for joy. It would have been a sad moment for Rita
had she not been with Dic; but with him by her side she did not so much
as turn her head for one backward look upon the home she was leaving.
Dic wore a coat made from mink pelts which he had taken in the hunt, and
he so wrapped and enveloped Rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes that
the cold could not come near her. He covered her head, mouth, nose, and
cheeks with a great fur cap of his own; but he left her eyes exposed,
saying, "I must be able to see them, you know." As he fastened the
curtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer from
the eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer and
the mercury freezing in the bulb.
If I were to tell you all the plans that were formulated upon that wagon
while it jolted and bumped over the frozen ruts of the Michigan road; if
I were to write down here all the words of hope and confidence in the
fickle future; if I were to tell you of the glances, touches, and words
of love that were given and spoken between sun-up and sun-down upon this
chariot of the gods--I will say of the blind god--I should never finish
writing, nor would you ever finish reading.
It was:--
"You will write to me every day?"
"Yes, every day."
"You will think of me every day and night?"
"Yes, Dic, every moment, and--"
"You will come back to me soon--very soon?"
"Yes, Dic, whenever you choose to take me."
"And you will be brave against your mother?"
"Yes, brave as I can be, for your sake, Dic. But you must not forget
that I cannot be very brave long at a time without help from you! Oh,
Dic, how can I bear to be so far away from you? I shall see you only on
Sundays; a whole week apart! You have never been from me so long since I
can remember till you went to New York. I told you trouble would come
from that trip; but you will come to me Sundays--by Saturday night's
stage?"
"Yes, every Sunday."
"Surely? You will never fail me? I shall die of disappointment if you
fail me once. All week I shall live on the hope of Sunday."
"I'll come, Rita. You need not fear."
"And Dic, you will not go often to see Sukey Yates, will you?"
"I'll not speak to her, if you wish. She is nothing to me. I'll not go
near her."
"No, I don't ask that. I fear I am very selfish. You will be lonely when
I am gone and--and you may go to see Sukey--and--and the other girls
once in a while. But you won't go too often to see Sukey and--and you
won't grow to caring for her--one bit, will you?"
"I will not go at all."
"Oh, but you must; I command you. You would think I do not trust you if
I would not let you go at all. I don't entirely trust her, though I am
sure I am wrong and wicked to doubt her; but I trust you, and would
trust you with any one."
"I, too, trust you, Rita. It will be impossible for you to mistreat
Williams, associated as he is with your father. For the sake of peace,
treat him well, but--"
"He shall never touch my hand, Dic; that I swear! I can't keep him from
coming to our house, but it will be torture when I shall be wanting you.
Oh, Dic--" and tears came before she could take her hands from under the
bearskins to cover her face. But as I said, I cannot tell you all the
plans and castles they built, nor shall I try.
The wise man buildeth many castles, but he abideth not therein, lest
they crumble about his ears and crush him. Castles built of air often
fall of stone. Therefore, only the foolish man keeps revel in the great
hall or slumbers in the donjon-keep.
* * * * *
Early upon the second Sunday after the Bayses' advent to Indianapolis,
Dic, disdaining the stage, rode a-horseback and covered the distance
before noon. Mr. Bays and Tom received him with open arms. Rita would
have done likewise in a more literal sense could she have had him alone
for a moment. But you can see her smiles and hear her gentle heart
beats, even as Dic saw and heard them. A bunch of cold, bony fingers was
given to Dic by Mother Justice. When he arrived Williams was present
awaiting dinner, and after Mrs. Bays had given the cold fingers, she
said:--
"I suppose we'll have to try to crowd another plate on the table. We
didn't expect an extra guest."
Rita endured without complaint her mother's thrusts when she alone
received them, but rebelled when Dic was attacked. In the kitchen she
told her mother that she would insult Williams if Mrs. Bays again
insulted Dic. The girl was so frightened by her own boldness that she
trembled, and although the mother's heart showed signs of weakness,
there was not time, owing to the scorching turkey, for a total collapse.
There was, however, time for a few random biblical quotations, and they
were almost as effective as heart failure in subduing the insolent,
disobedient, ungrateful, sacrilegious, wicked daughter for whom the fond
mother had toiled and suffered and endured, lo! these many years.
When Rita and her mother returned to the front room to invite the guests
to dinner, Dic thanked Mrs. Bays, and said he would go to the tavern.
Rita's face at once became a picture of woe, but she was proud of Dic's
spirit, and gloried in his exhibition of self-respect. When Mrs. Bays
saw that Dic resented her insult, she insisted that he should remain.
She said there was plenty for all, and that there was more room at the
table than she had supposed. But Dic took his hat and started toward the
door. Tom tried to take the hat from his hand, saying:--
"Nonsense, Dic, you will stay. You must," and Mr. Bays said:--
"Come, come, boy, don't be foolish. It has been a long time since you
took a meal with us. It will seem like old times again. Put down your
hat."
Dic refused emphatically, and Tom, taking up his own hat, said:--
"If Dic goes to the inn, I go with him. Mother's a damned old fool." I
wish I might have heard the undutiful son speak those blessed words!
Williams was delighted when Rita did not insist upon Dic's remaining,
but his delight died ignominiously when the girl with tears in her eyes
took Dic's hand before them all and said:--
"Come back to me soon, Dic. I will be waiting for you."
Our little girl is growing brave, but she trembles when she thinks of
the wrath to come.
Dinner was a failure. Mrs. Bays thought only of the note payable on
demand, and feared that her offensive conduct to Dic might cause its
instant maturity. If the note had been in her own hands under similar
circumstances, and if she had been in Dic's place, she well knew that
serious results would have followed. She judged Dic by herself, and
feared she had made a mistake.
There were but two modes of living in peace with this woman--even in
semi-peace. Domineer her coldly, selfishly, and cruelly as did Tom, and
she would be a worm; or submit to her domineering, be a worm yourself,
and she would be a tyrant. Those who insist on domineering others
usually have their way. The world is too good-natured and too lazy to
combat them. Fight them with their own weapons, and they become an easy
prey. Tom was his mother's own son. He domineered her, his father, and
Rita; but, like his mother, his domineering was inflicted only upon
those whose love for him made them unresisting.
But I have wandered from the dinner. Rita sat by Williams, but she did
not eat, and vouchsafed to him only such words as were absolutely
necessary to answer direct questions.
Williams was a handsome fellow, and many girls would have been glad to
answer his questions volubly. He, like Mrs. Bays, was of a domineering
nature, and clung to a purpose once formed with the combative tenacity
of a bull-dog or the cringing persistency of a hound. Success in all his
undertakings was his object, and he cared little about the means to
desired ends. Such a man usually attains his end; among other
consummations, he is apt to marry a rare, beautiful girl who hates him.
"Dic is like a brother to Rita," said Mrs. Bays, in explanation of her
daughter's conduct. "Her actions may seem peculiar to a stranger, but
she could only feel for him the affection she might give to a brother."
"Brother!" exclaimed Rita, in accent of contempt, though she did not
look up from her plate. The young lady was growing rebellious. Wait for
the reckoning, girl! Rita's red flag of rebellion silenced Mrs. Bays for
the time being, and she attempted no further explanations.
Poor father Bays could think of nothing but Dic eating dinner at the
tavern. Rita trembled in rebellion, and was silent. After a time the
general chilliness penetrated even Williams's coat of polish, and only
the clinking of the knives and forks broke the uncomfortable stillness.
Dic was well avenged.
Soon after dinner Tom and Dic returned. Tom went to the kitchen, and his
mother said:--
"Tom, my son, your words grieved me, and I--"
"Oh, shut up," answered De Triflin'. "Your heart'll bust if you talk too
much. Do you want to make Dic sue us for the money we owe him, and throw
us out of business? Don't you know we would have to go back to Blue if
Dic asked for his money? If you hain't got any sense, you ought to keep
your mouth shut."
"Tom, you should be ashamed," said Rita, looking reproachfully at her
brother.
"You shut up too," answered Tom. "Go in and talk to your two beaux. God!
but you're popular. How are you going to manage them to-night?"
That question had presented itself before, and Rita had not been able to
answer it.
After Mrs. Bays had gone from the kitchen, Tom repeated his question:--
"How will you manage them to-night, Sis?"
"I don't know," answered Rita, almost weeping. "I suppose Dic will go
away. He has more pride than--than the other. I suppose Mr. Williams
will stay. Tom, if you find an opportunity, I want you to tell Dic to
stay--tell him I want him to stay. He must stay with me until Williams
goes, even if it is all night. Please do this for me, brother, and I'll
do anything for you that you ask--I always do."
But Tom laughed, and said, "No, I'll not mix in. I like Dic; but, Sis,
you're a fool if you don't take Williams. The Tousy girls would jump at
him. They were at the tavern, and laughed at Dic's country ways."
Tom lied about the Tousy girls. They were splendid girls, and their
laughter had not been at Dic's country ways. In fact, the eldest Miss
Tousy had asked Tom the name of his handsome friend.
Tom left Rita, and her tears fell unheeded as she finished the
after-dinner work. For ten days she had looked forward to this Sunday,
and after its tardy arrival it was full of grief, despite her joy at
seeing Dic.
At two o'clock Williams left, and the remainder of the afternoon richly
compensated the girl for her earlier troubles. Tom went out, and about
four o'clock Mr. Bays went for a walk while Justice was sleeping
upstairs. During the father's absence, Dic and Rita had a delightful
half hour to themselves, during which her tongue made ample amends for
its recent silence, and talked such music to Dic as he had never before
heard. She had, during the past ten days, made memoranda of the subjects
upon which she wished to speak, fearing, with good reason, that she
would forget them all, in the whirl of her joy, if she trusted to
memory. So the memoranda were brought from a pocket, and the subjects
taken up in turn. To Dic that half hour was well worth the ride to
Indianapolis and home again. To her it was worth ten times ten days of
waiting, and the morning with its wretched dinner was forgotten.
Mrs. Margarita, stricken by Tom's words, had been thinking all the
afternoon of the note payable on demand, and had grown to fear the
consequences of her conduct at dinner-time. She had hardly grown out of
the feeling that Dic was a boy, but his prompt resentment of her cold
reception awakened her to the fact that he might soon become a dangerous
man. Rita's show of rebellion also had an ominous look. She was nearing
the dangerous age of eighteen and could soon marry whom she chose. Dic
might carry her off, despite the watchfulness of open-eyed Justice, and
cause trouble with the note her husband had so foolishly given. All
these considerations moved Margarita, the elder, to gentleness, and when
she came downstairs she said:--
"Dic, I am surprised and deeply hurt. We always treat you without
ceremony, as one of the family, and I didn't mean that I didn't want you
to stay for dinner. I did want you, and you must stay for supper."
Dic's first impulse was to refuse the invitation; but the pleading in
Rita's eyes was more than he could resist, and he remained.
How different was the supper from the dinner! Rita was as talkative as
one could ask a girl to be, and Mrs. Bays would have referred to the
relative virtues of hearing and seeing girls, had she not been in
temporary fear of the demand note. Tom was out for supper with Williams.
Mr. Bays told all he knew; and even the icy dragoness, thawed by the
genial warmth, unbent to as great a degree as the daughter of Judge
Anselm Fisher might with propriety unbend, and was actually
pleasant--for her. After supper Dic insisted that Mrs. Bays should go to
the front room, and that he should be allowed, as in olden times, when
he was a boy, to assist Rita in "doing up" the after-supper work. So he,
wearing an apron, stood laughingly by Rita's side drying the dishes
while she washed them. There were not enough dishes by many thousand,
and when the paltry few before them had been dried and placed in a large
pan, Dic, while Rita's back was turned, poured water over them, and, of
course, they all had to be dried again. Rita laughed, and began her task
anew.
"Who would have thought," she whispered, shrugging her shoulders, "that
washing dishes could be such pleasant work."
Dic acknowledged his previous ignorance on the subject. He was for
interrupting the work semi-occasionally, but when the interruptions
became too frequent, she would say: "Don't, Dic," and laughingly push
him away. She was not miserly. She was simply frugal, and Dic had no
good reason to complain. After every dish had been washed and dried many
times, Rita started toward her torture chamber, the front room.
At the door she whispered to Dic:--
"Mr.--that man is in there. He will remain all evening, and I want you
to stay till he goes."
"Very well," responded Dic. "I don't like that sort of thing, but if you
wish, I'll stay till morning rather than leave him with you."
Williams was on hand, and as a result Rita had no words for any one.
There was no glorious fireplace in the room, and consequently no cosey
ciphering log. In its place was an iron stove, which, according to Rita,
made the atmosphere "stuffy."
Toward nine o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Bays retired, and the "sitting-out"
tournament began. The most courteous politeness was assumed by the
belligerent forces, in accordance with established custom in all
tournaments.
The great clock in the corner struck ten, eleven, and twelve o'clock.
Still the champions were as fresh as they had been at nine. No one could
foretell the victor, though any one could easily have pointed out the
poor victim. After ten o'clock the conversation was conducted almost
entirely by Williams and Dic, with a low monosyllable now and then from
Rita when addressed. She, poor girl, was too sleepy to talk, even to
Dic. Soon after twelve o'clock the knight from Blue, pitying her, showed
signs of surrender; but she at once awoke and mutely gave him to
understand that she would hold him craven should he lower his lance
point while life lasted. The clock struck one.
The champions had exhausted all modern topics and were beginning on old
Rome. Dic wondered what would be the hour when they should reach Greece
and Egypt in their backward flight. But after the downfall of Rome, near
the hour of two, Sir Roger was unhorsed, and went off to his castle and
to bed. Then Rita bade Dic good-by, after exacting from him a solemn
promise to return the next Sunday.
Rita thought Dic's victory was a good omen, and drew much comfort from
it. She tried to lie awake to nurse her joy, but her eyes were so heavy
that she fell asleep in the midst of her prayer.
Dic saddled his horse and started home. The sharp, crisp air was
delicious. The starlit sky was a canopy of never ceasing beauty, and
the song in his heart was the ever sweet song of hope. The four hours'
ride seemed little more than a journey of as many minutes; and when he
stabled his horse at home, just as the east was turning gray and the
sun-blinded stars were blinking, he said to himself:--
"A fifty-two-mile ride and twenty-four hours of
happiness,--anticipation, realization, and memory,--cheap!"
He slept for two or three hours and hunted all day long. Tuesday's stage
brought a letter from Rita, and it is needless to speak of its
electrifying effect on Dic. There was a great deal of "I" and "me" and
"you" in the letter, together with frequent repetitions; but tautology,
under proper conditions, may have beauties of its own, not at all to be
despised.
Dic went to town Tuesday evening and sat before Billy Little's fire till
ten o'clock, telling our worthy little friend of recent events. They
both laughed over the "sitting-out" tournament.
"It begins to look as if you would get her," remarked Billy, leaning
forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. He was
intensely jealous of Williams, and was eager to help Dic in any manner
possible.
"I hope you are right, Billy Little," replied Dic. "When persons agree
as do Rita and I, there should be a law against outside interference."
"There is such a law," answered Billy--"God's law, but most persons have
greater respect for a legislative statute."
"I didn't know you were religious," said Dic.
"Of course I am. Every man with any good in him is religious. One
doesn't have to be a Methodist, a Baptist, or a Roman Catholic to be
religious. But bless my soul, Dic, I don't want to preach." He leaned
forward looking into the fire, took his pipe from his mouth and, as
usual, hummed Maxwelton's braes.
"If Rita were a different girl, my task would be easier," observed Dic.
"She is too tender-hearted and affectionate to see faults in any one who
is near to her. Notwithstanding her mother's cruelty and hypocrisy, Rita
loves her passionately and believes she is the best and greatest of
women. She stands in fear of her, too, and when the diabolical old fiend
quotes Scripture, no matter how irrelevantly, or has heart trouble, the
girl loses self-control and would give up her life if her mother wanted
it. Rita is a coward, too; but that is a sweet fault in a woman, and I
would not have her different in any respect. I believe Mrs. Bays has
greater respect for me since I lent the money. I could see the good
effect immediately."
"Her respect would not have been so perceptible had you taken a note
payable in one or two years. Hold that demand note as a club over the
old woman, and perhaps you will get the girl."
"Was that your reason for advising me to take the note payable on
demand?" asked Dic.
"It was one of my reasons--perhaps the chief one."
"Then I'll write to Mr. Bays asking him to draw a new note payable in
two years," said Dic.
Billy took a small piece of paper, wrote a line or two, and handed it to
Dic, saying:--
"Sign this and deliver it to Williams when you take Bays's note due in
two years."
The slip read, "Pay on demand to Roger Williams, Esq., one Rita Bays."
Dic laughed nervously, and said: "I guess you're right, as usual. After
all, it is a shame that I should take her to my poor log-cabin when she
might have a mansion in Boston and all that money can buy. If I were an
unselfish man, I should release my claims to her." A silence of several
moments ensued, during which Billy drew the leather trunk from under the
bed and took a fresh letter from the musty package we have already
seen. He drew his chair near to the candle, slipped the letter from its
envelope, and slowly read its four pages to himself. After gazing at the
fire for several minutes in meditation he said:--
"I received a Christmas gift, Dic. It came from England. I got it this
morning. It is the miniature of an old friend. I have not seen or heard
from her in thirty years. I also have a letter. If you wish, you may be
the only person in all the world, save myself, to read it."
"Indeed, I'll be glad--if you wish me to read it. You know I am deeply
interested in all that touches you."
"I believe I know," answered Billy, handing him the letter across the
table. Dic read to himself:--
----, ENGLAND, 18
"MY DEAR FRIEND: Each Christmas day for many years have I written a
letter to you, but none of them have ever been seen by any eyes
save my own. I have always intended sending them to you, but my
courage upon each occasion has failed me, and none of them has ever
reached you. This one I mean to send. I wonder if I shall do so?
How many years is it, my friend, since that day, so full of
pain,--ah, so full of pain,--when I returned the ring you had given
me, and you released me to another. In your letter you made
pretence that you did not suffer, knowing that I would suffer for
the sake of your pain. But you did not deceive me. I knew then, as
I know now, that you released me because you supposed the position
and wealth which were offered me would bring happiness. But, my
friend, that was a mistaken generosity. Life has been rich in many
ways. I have wealth and exalted position, and am honored and envied
by many. My husband is a good, kind man. I have no children and am
thankful in lacking them. A woman willingly bears children only
for the man she loves. But, oh, my friend, the weariness that never
ceases, the yearning that never stops, the dull pain that never
really eases, have turned me gray, and I am old before my time. I
fear the longing and the pain are sinful, and nightly I pray God to
take them from my heart. At times He answers, in a degree, my
prayers, and I almost forget; but again, He forsakes me, and at
those moments my burden seems heavier than I can bear. One may
easily endure if one has a bright past or a happy future to look
upon. One may live over and over again one's past joys, or may draw
upon a hopeful future; but a dead, ashen past, a barren present,
and a hopeless future bring us at times to rebellion against an
all-wise God because He has given us life. Time is said to heal all
wounds; but it has failed with me, and they, I fear, will ache so
long as I live. I suppose you, too, are old, though you will always
be young to me, and doubtless the snow is also in your hair. I,
sinful one that I am, send you with this letter, my miniature and a
lock of my hair, that you may realize the great change that has
been wrought in me by time. This letter I surely will post. May it
take to you in the wilderness a part of my wretchedness, for so
selfish am I that I would take comfort in knowing that I do not
suffer alone. I retract the last sentence and in its place ask, not
that you suffer, but that you do not forget. In health I am blessed
beyond my deserts, and I hope the same comfort abides with you. You
will hear from me never again. I have allowed myself this one
delightful moment of sin, and God, I know, will give me strength
against another. I wish you all the good that one human being can
wish another.
"Regretfully, fondly, farewell.
"RITA."
Dic, almost in tears, returned the letter to Billy Little, and that
worthy man, wishing to rob the scene of its sentimentality, said:--
"She says she supposes my hair is gray! She doesn't know I am as bald as
a gourd. Here is her miniature. I'll not send her mine; she might
laugh."
Dic took the picture and saw a sweet, tender face, fringed by white
curls, and aglow with soft, brown eyes.
"Do you see a resemblance in the miniature to--to any one you know?"
asked Billy Little.
"By George!" exclaimed Dic, holding the picture at arm's length,
"Rita--her mouth, her eyes; the same name, too," and he kissed the
miniature rapturously.
"Look here, young fellow," cried Billy Little. "Hand me that miniature.
You shan't be kissing all my female friends. By Jove! if she were to
come over here, I'd drive you out of the settlement with a shot-gun,
'deed if I wouldn't. Now you will probably change your mind about
unselfishly surrendering Rita to Williams. I tell you, Dic, a fool
conscience is more to be dreaded than a knavish heart."
"You are always right, Billy Little, though, to tell you the truth, I
had no intention whatever of surrendering Rita to any one," returned
Dic.
"I know you hadn't. Of course I knew you could not even have spoken
about it had you any thought that it might be possible."
A KISS AND A DUEL