A KISS AND A DUEL
I shall not attempt to give you an account of Dic's numerous journeyings
to Indianapolis. With no abatement in affection, the period of his
visits changed from weekly to fortnightly, and then to monthly.
Meantime, Williams was adroitly plying his suit; and by convincing Rita
that he had abandoned the role of lover for that of friend, he succeeded
in regaining her confidence. As agent for his father's products, he had
an office at Indianapolis, and large sums of money passed through his
hands. He and Tom became great cronies, for it was Williams's intention
to leave no stone unturned, the turning of which might assist him in
winning Rita. His passion for the girl became almost desperate at times,
and her unmistakable coldness added fuel to the flame. He well knew she
did not love him; but, like many another mistaken man, he believed he
could teach her that great lesson if she were his wife, and could not
believe that she entertained either a serious or a lasting sentiment for
so inferior a person as Diccon Bright. Williams had invariably found
smooth sailing with other young ladies; and head winds in Rita's case
caused the harbor to appear fairer than any other for which he had ever
trimmed his sails.
Soon after Rita's entrance into Indianapolis society she became popular
with the fair sex and admired of the unfair; that condition, in my
opinion, being an unusual triumph for any young woman. To that end
Williams was of great assistance. A rich, cultured society man of Boston
was sure to cut a great figure among the belles and mothers of a small
frontier town. The girl whom Williams delighted to honor necessarily
assumed importance in the eyes of her sisters. In most cases they would
have disliked her secretly in direct ratio to the cube of their outward
respect; but Rita was so gentle and her beauty was so exquisite, yet
unassertive, that the girl soon numbered among her friends all who knew
her. There were the Tousy and the Peasly girls, the Wright girls and the
Morrisons, to say nothing of the Smiths, Browns, and Joneses, many of
whom were the daughters of cultured parents. If any one nowadays
believes that Indianapolis--little spot in the wilderness though it
was--lacked refined society during the thirties, he is much mistaken.
Servants were scarce, and young ladies of cultured homes might any day
be called upon to cook the dinner or the supper, and afterward to "do
up" the work; but they could leave the kitchen after preparing a good
meal, walk into the parlor and play Beethoven and Mozart with credit to
themselves and their instructors, and pleasure to their audience. They
could leave the piano and discuss Shakespeare, Addison, Dick Steele,
Provost, and Richardson; and, being part of the immutable feminine,
could also discuss their neighbors upon occasion, and speak earnestly
upon the serious subject of frocks and frills. As to beauty--but that is
a benediction granted to all times and places, creating more or less
trouble everywhere.
The Tousy girls, having wealth, beauty, and numbers--there were five of
them, ranging in years from fifteen to twenty-five--led the social
march; and they at once placed the stamp of unqualified approval upon
our little country girl from Blue. The eldest of the Tousy brood was, of
course, Miss Tousy; then came Sue, Kate, and the others, both of whom,
naturally, had names of their own. Miss Tousy will soon make her
appearance again in these pages for a short time. Her own romance I
should like to tell you some day.
* * * * *
The firm of Fisher and Fox thrived famously during the first few months
of their partnership, and that Tom might not be ashamed of Rita when in
society, Mrs. Bays consented that she should have some new gowns, hats,
and wraps. All this fine raiment pleased Dic for Rita's sake, and
troubled him for his own.
The first he saw of the new gowns was on a certain bright Sunday
afternoon in spring. Rita's heart had been divided between two desires:
she longed to tell Dic in her letters of her beautiful new gowns, but
she also wished to surprise him. By a masterful effort she took the
latter course, and coming downstairs after dinner upon the Sunday
mentioned she burst suddenly upon Dic in all her splendor. Her delight
was so intense that she could not close her lips for smiling, and Dic
was fairly stunned by her grandeur and beauty. She turned this way and
that, directing him to observe the beautiful tints and the fashionable
cut of her garments, and asked him if the bonnet with its enormous
"poke," filled with monster roses, was not a thing of beauty and a joy
so long as it should last. Dic agreed with her, and told her with truth
that he had never seen a fashion so sweet and winsome. Then he received
his reward, after being cautioned not to disturb the bonnet, and they
started out for a walk in the sunshine.
Dic's garments were good enough,--he had bought them in New York,--but
Rita's outfit made his clothes look poor and rusty. Ever since her
residence in Indianapolis he had felt the girl slipping away from him,
and this new departure in the matter of dress seemed to be a further
departure in the matter of Rita. In that conclusion he was wrong. The
girl had been growing nearer to him day by day. Her heart belonged to
him more entirely than it had even on the banks of Blue, and she longed
for the sycamore divan and the royal canopy of elm. Still, she loved her
pretty gowns.
"I am almost afraid of you," said Dic, when he had closed the gate and
was taking his place beside her for the walk.
"Why?" asked Rita, delightedly. Her heart was full of the spring and
Dic; what more could she desire?
"Your gown, your bonnet, your dainty shoes, your gloves, your beauty,
all frighten me," said Dic. "I can't believe they belong to me. I can't
realize they are mine."
"But they are," she said, flashing up to him a laughing glance from her
eyes. "My new gown should not frighten you."
"But it does," he returned, "and you, too."
"I am glad if I frighten you," she answered, while lacing her gloves. "I
have been afraid of you long enough. It is your turn now."
"You have been afraid of me?" asked Dic in surprise.
"Yes," she returned quite seriously. "I have always been slightly afraid
of you, and I hope I always shall be. The night of Scott's social I was
simply frightened to death, and before that night for a long, long time
I was in constant fear of you. I was afraid you would speak of--you
know--and I was afraid you would not. I did not know what terrible
catastrophe would happen if you did speak, and I did not know what would
happen to me if you did not. So you see I have always been afraid of
you," she said laughingly.
"Why, Rita, I would not harm a hair of your head."
"Of course not. I did not fear you in that way. You are so strong and
big and masterful; that is what frightens me. Perhaps I enjoy fearing
you just a bit."
"But you are so much grander than I," returned Dic, "that you seem to be
farther from me than ever before."
"Farther?" she asked in surprise.
"Yes, you seem to be drifting from me ever since you came to
Indianapolis," he returned.
"Ah, Dic, I have been feeling just the reverse," and her eyes opened
wide as she looked into his without faltering. There was not a thought
in all their gentle depths she would not gladly have him know. A short
silence ensued, during which she was thinking rapidly, and her thoughts
produced these remarkable words:--
"You should have taken me long ago." Dic wondered how he might have
taken her; but failing to discover any mistake, he went on:--
"I am going to New York again this spring and,--and you will be past
eighteen when I return. You can then marry me without your mother's
consent, if you will. Will you go home with me when I return?"
The eyes and the face were bent toward the ground, but the lips
whispered distinctly, "Yes, Dic," and that young man bitterly regretted
the publicity of their situation.
Soon our strollers met other young persons, and Dic was presented. All
were dressed in holiday attire, and the young man from Blue felt that
his companion and her friends outshone him completely. Rita was proud of
him, and said as much in reply to Dic's remark when they resumed their
walk.
"You might come to see me during the week, when the stores are open,"
she said, "and you might buy one of the new-fashioned hats. If you can
afford it, you might order a long coat for Sunday. Polished shoes would
look well, too; but I am satisfied with you as you are. I only suggest
these purchases because you seem to feel uncomfortable."
After Rita's suggestion he did feel uncomfortable. He had earned no
money since his return from New York, and Rita's fine feathers had been
purchased by the proceeds of his twenty-six hundred dollars invested in
her father's business. Therefore, hat, coat, and shoes were not within
his reach unless he should go into debt, and that he had no thought of
doing.
With her husband's increasing prosperity, Mrs. Bays grew ever more
distant in her manner toward Dic. Rita, having once learned that
rebellion did not result in instant death to her or to her parent, had
taken courage, and governed her treatment of Williams by her mother's
conduct toward Dic. Therefore Justice, though stern, was never
insulting.
After Rita's suggestion bearing upon the coat, Dic, though ardently
desiring to see her, dreaded to go to Indianapolis, and at that time his
visits became monthly, much to Rita's grief. She complained in her
letters, and her gentle reproaches were pathetic and painful to Dic.
Tom frequently visited the old home, and, incidentally, Sukey Yates,
upon whom his city manner and fashionable attire made a tremendous
impression. Returning home from his visits to Sukey, Tom frequently
spoke significantly of Dic's visits to that young lady's ciphering log,
and Rita winced at her brother's words, but said nothing. Miss Yates
probably multiplied the number of Dic's visits by two or more in
speaking of them to Tom, having in mind the double purpose of producing
an effect upon that young man and also upon his sister. But there was
too much truth in her boasting, since our hero certainly submitted
himself to Sukey's blandishments and placed himself under the fatal
spell of her dimples with an increasing frequency which was to be
lamented. Especially was it lamented by Billy Little. Sukey was so
perfect a little specimen of the human animal, and her heart was so
prone to tenderness, that she became, upon intimate acquaintance, the
incarnation of that condition into which the right sort of people pray
kind Providence to lead them not. The neighborhood gossips and prophets
freely predicted that Rita would marry Williams, in which case it was
surmised Miss Yates would carry her dimples into the Bright family. This
theory Sukey encouraged by arch glances and shy denials.
Tom had become a great dandy, and considered himself one of the
commercial features of the Indiana metropolis. He would have his old
home friends, including Sukey, believe that he directed the policy of
Fisher and Fox, and that he was also the real business brain in the
office of Roger Williams, where he occupied the position of confidential
clerk. He was of little real value to Williams, save in the matter of
wooing Tom's sister. Tom knew that he held his clerkship only by the
tenure of Rita's smiles, and Williams, by employing him, gained an ally
not at all to be despised.
On a certain Monday morning, after Rita had the day previous shown
marked preference to Dic, Williams said:--
"Tom, father orders me to cut down expenses, and I fear I shall be
compelled to begin with your salary. I regret the necessity, but the
governor's orders are imperative. We will let it stand as it is for this
month and will see what can be done afterward."
This gentle hint was not lost on Thomas. He went home that day to
dinner, and Rita felt the heavy hand of her brother's displeasure.
"You are the most selfish, ungrateful girl living," said Tom, who
honestly thought his fair sister had injured him. Tom's sense of truth,
like his mother's, ran parallel to his wishes.
"Why?" asked Rita, wonderingly. Had the earth slipped from its axis,
Tom and his mother would have placed the blame on Rita.
"Why?" repeated Tom. "Because you know I have a good position with
Williams. He pays me a better salary than any one else would give me;
yet you almost insulted him yesterday and went off for a walk with that
country jake."
"Isn't Dic your friend?" asked Rita.
"No, of course he ain't," replied Tom. "Do you think I'd take him out
calling, with such clothes as he wears, to see any of the girls?"
"I hope not," answered Rita, struggling with a smile.
"No, sir," insisted Tom, "and if I lose my place because you mistreat
Williams on Dic's account, he shan't come into this house. Do you
understand? If he does, I'll kick him out."
"You kick Dic!" returned Rita, laughing. "You would be afraid to say
'boo' to him. Tom, I should be sorry to see you after you had tried to
kick Dic."
"Well, I'll tell you now, Sis," said Tom, threateningly, "you treat
Williams right. If you don't, your big, jakey friend will suffer."
"It is on Dic's capital that father is making so much money," responded
Rita. "Had it not been for him we would still be on Blue. I certainly
wish we were back there."
"Your father will soon pay Dic his money," said Mrs. Bays, solemnly,
"and then we will be free to act as we wish."
"The debt to Dic is no great thing," said Tom. "The firm owes Williams
nearly four times that amount, and he isn't a man who will stand much
foolishness. Father is not making so much money, either, as you think
for, and the first thing you know, with your smartness, you will ruin
him and me both, if you keep on making a fool of yourself. But that
wouldn't hurt you. You don't think of nobody but yourself."
"That has always been Rita's chief fault," remarked the Chief Justice,
sitting in solemn judgment upon a case that was not before her. Poor
Rita was beginning to feel that she was a monster of selfishness. Her
father came feebly to her defence.
"I don't believe the girl lives," said Thomas, Sr., "who is less selfish
than Rita. But Fisher and I do owe Williams a great deal of money, and
are not making as much as we did at first. The crops failed last summer,
and collections are hard. Williams has been pressing for money, and I
hope all the family will treat him well, for he is the kind of man who
might take out his spite upon me, for the sake of getting even with
somebody else."
Rita's heart sank. Her father, though a weak vassal, had long been her
only ally.
Had Williams not been a suitor for her hand, Rita would have found him
agreeable; and if her heart had been free, he might have won it. So long
as he maintained the attitude of friend and did not conflict with Dic's
claims, he was well received; but when he became a lover--a condition
difficult to refrain from--she almost hated and greatly feared him.
Despite her wretchedness, she accepted his visits and invitations for
her father's sake, and at times felt that she was under the spell of a
cruel wizard from Boston. With all these conditions, the battle of Dic's
wooing, though he held the citadel,--Rita's heart,--was by no means an
even fight. There were other causes operating that might eventually rout
him, even from that citadel.
One evening, while sitting before Billy Little's fire, Dic's campaign
was discussed in detail. The young man said:--
"Rita and I are to be married soon after I return from New York. If her
mother consents, well and good; if she refuses, we will bear up
manfully under her displeasure and ignore it. I have often thought of
your remark about Mrs. Bays as a mother-in-law."
"She certainly would be ideal," responded Billy. "But I hope you will
get the girl. She's worth all the trouble the old lady can make."
"Why do you say 'hope'?" asked Dic. "I'm sure of getting her. Why, Billy
Little, if I were to lose that girl, I believe I should go mad."
"No, you wouldn't," returned his friend. "You would console yourself
with the dimpler."
"Why, Billy Little, you are crazy--excuse me--but you don't understand,"
expostulated Dic. "For me, all that is worth possessing in the whole big
universe is concentrated in one small bit of humanity. Her little body
encompasses it all. Sukey Yates could be nothing to me, even though I
cared nothing for Rita. She has too many other friends, as she calls
them, and probably is equally generous to all."
"If you care for Rita, you should remain away from Sukey," remarked
Billy. "She may be comprehensive in her affections, and she may have
been--to state it mildly--overtender at times; but when a girl of her
ardent temperament falls in love, she becomes dangerous, because she is
really very attractive to the eye."
"I don't go there often, and I'll take your advice and remain away. I
have feared the danger you speak of, but--"
"Speak out, Dic; you may trust me," said Billy. Dic continued:--
"I don't like to speak of a girl as I was going to speak of Sukey, but
I'll explain. I have, of course, been unable to explain to Rita, and I'm
a selfish brute to go to Sukey's at all. Rita has never complained, but
there is always a troubled look in her eyes when she jestingly speaks
of Sukey as my 'other girl.' Well, it's this way: Sukey often comes to
see mother, who prefers her to Rita, and if she comes in the evening, of
course I take her home. I believe I have not deliberately gone over to
see her three times in all my life. Sometimes I ride home from church
with her and spend part of the evening. Sukey is wonderfully pretty, and
her health is so good that at times she looks like a little nymph. She
is, in a way, entertaining too. As you say, she appeals to the eye, and
when she grows affectionate, her purring and her dimples make a
formidable array not at all to be despised. You are right. She is the
same to a score of men, and I could not fall in love with her were she
the only girl on earth. I should be kicked for speaking so of her or of
any girl, but you know I would not speak so freely to any one but you.
Speaking to you seems almost like thinking."
"If it makes you think, I shall be glad you spoke," answered Billy.
"No more Sukey for me," said Dic. "I'll have nothing more to do with
her. I want to be decent and worthy of Rita. I want to be true to her,
and Sukey is apt to lead me in the other direction, without even the
excuse on my part of caring for her. An honest man will not deliberately
lead himself into temptation."
Upon the Sunday previous to Dic's intended departure for New York he
visited Rita. He had made this New York trip once before, and had
returned safely, therefore its terrors for Rita were greatly reduced.
Her regret on account of the second expedition was solely because she
would be separated from Dic for three or four months, and that
bitterness was sweetened by the thought that she would have him always
after his return.
"How shall I act while you are away?" she asked. "Shall I continue to
receive Mr. Williams, or shall I refuse to see him? You must decide for
me, and I'll act as you wish. You know how unhappy mother will be if I
refuse to see him and--and, you know she will be very severe with me. I
would not care so much for that, although her harshness hurts me
terribly. But mother's in bad health--her heart is troubling her a great
deal of late--and I can't bear to cause her pain. On the other hand, it
tortures me when that man comes near me, and it must pain you when I
receive him kindly. I can't bear to pain you and--and at times I fear if
I permit his attention you will--will doubt me. That would kill me, Dic;
I really believe it would."
"Don't worry on that score," replied Dic, placing his hand on her heart,
"there is nothing but truth here."
"I hope not, Dic," she replied. She could not boast even of her
fidelity. There might be many sorts of evil in that heart, for all she
knew.
"Indeed, there is not," said Dic, tenderly. "If by any chance we should
ever be separated,--if we should ever lose each other,--it will not be
because of your bad faith."
"But, Dic," cried Rita, "that terrible 'if.' It is the first time you
ever used the word with reference to us."
"It means nothing, Rita," answered Dic, reassuringly. "There can be no
'if' between you and me. As for Williams, you must receive him and treat
him kindly. Tom is his clerk, and I should hate to see Tom lose his
position. Tom is a mighty good fellow. You say your father owes Williams
a large debt. He might, if he chose, act ugly. Therefore, you must act
prettily. Poor Williams! I'm sorry for him. We will give them all the
slip when I return."
The slip came in an unexpected manner, and Dic did not go to New York.
Rita's continued aversion to Williams, instead of cooling that young
man's ardor, fired it to a degree previously unknown in the cool-blooded
Williams family. He had visited his cultured home for the purpose of
dilating upon the many charms of body, soul, and mind possessed by this
fair girl of the wilderness. His parents, knowing him to be a young man
of sound Mayflower judgment and worthy to be trusted for making a good,
sensible bargain in all matters of business, including matrimony,
readily gave their consent, and offered him his father's place at the
head of the agricultural firm, in case he should marry. They were wise
enough to know that a young man well married is a young man well made;
and they had no doubt, judging from Roger's description, that Rita was
the girl of girls.
Williams did not tell his parents that up to that time his wooing had
been in vain, and they, with good reason, did not conceive it possible
that any girl in her right mind would refuse their son. Roger was
willing, Roger's parents were willing, Rita's parents were eager for the
match; every person and everything needful were on his side, save one
small girl. Roger thought that trifling obstacle would soon yield to the
pressure of circumstances, the persuasion of conditions, and the charm
of his own personality. He and the conditions had been warring upon the
small obstacle for many months, and still it was as small as ever--but
no smaller. The non-aggressive, feather-bed stubbornness of
insignificant obstacles is often very irritating to an enterprising
soul.
Williams was a fine, intellectual fellow, and his knowledge of human
nature had enabled him to estimate--at least to approximate--the
inestimable value of the girl he so ardently desired. Her rare beauty
would, he thought, grace a palace; while her manifold virtues and good
common-sense would accomplish a much greater task, and grace a home.
Added to these reasons of state was a passionate love on the part of
Williams of which any woman might have been proud. Williams was,
ordinarily, sure-footed, and would have made fewer mistakes in his
wooing had his love been less feverish. He also had a great fund of
common-sense, but love is inimical to that rare commodity, and under the
blind god's distorting influence the levelest head will, in time, become
conical. So it happened that, after many months of cautious
manoeuvring, Williams began to make mistakes.
For the sake of her parents and Tom, Rita had treated Williams with
quiet civility, and when she learned that she could do so without
precipitating a too great civility on his part, she gathered confidence
and received him with undisguised cordiality. Roger, in his eagerness,
took undue hope. Believing that the obstacle had become very small, he
determined, upon occasion, to remove it entirely, by one bold stroke.
Rita's kindness and Roger's growing hope and final determination to try
the issue of one pivotal battle, all came into being during the period
when Dic had reduced his visits to one month. The final charge by the
Boston 'vincibles was made on the evening following Dic's visit
last-mentioned.
An ominous quiet had reigned in the Williams camp for several months,
and the beleaguered city, believing that hostilities had ceased, was
lulled into a state of unwatchfulness, which, in turn, had given great
hope to the waiting cohorts.
Upon the Monday evening referred to, the girl commanding the beleaguered
forces received the enemy, whom she wished might be her friend, into her
outworks, the front parlor. Little dreaming that a perfidious Greek was
entering her Trojan gates, she laughed and talked charmingly, hoping, if
possible, to smooth the road for her father and Tom by the help of her
all-powerful smiles. Poor and weak she considered those smiles to be;
but the Greek thought them wondrous, and coveted them as no Greek ever
coveted Troy. Feeling that Williams sought only her friendship, and
being more than willing to give him that, she was her natural self, and
was more winsome and charming than she had ever before appeared to him.
Her graciousness, which he should have been wise enough to understand
but did not, her winsomeness and beauty, which he should have been
strong enough to withstand but was not, and his love, which he tried to
resist but could not, induced him upon that evening to make an attack.
Many little items of local interest had been discussed, foreign affairs
were touched upon, books, music, and the blessed weather had each been
duly considered, and short periods of silence had begun to occur,
together with an occasional smothered yawn from Rita. Williams, with the
original purpose of keeping the conversation going and with no intent to
boast, said:--
"My father has purchased a new home in Boston beyond the Common, over on
the avenue, and has offered to give me his old house. He has determined
to retire from the firm and I am to take his place. I shall start for
Boston Christmas Day"--here his self-control forsook him--"and, Rita, if
you will go with me, I shall be the happiest man on earth."
The girl remained silent, feeling that he knew her mind on the subject,
and hoping he would proceed no farther. Hope, spurred by desire, is
easily awakened, and Williams, misunderstanding her silence,
continued:--
"I do not mean to boast, but I cannot help telling you that your home in
Boston, if you will go with me, will be one of the most beautiful in the
city. All that wealth can buy you shall have, and all that love and
devotion can bring you shall possess. Other girls would jump at the
chance--" (poor conical head--this to this girl) "but I want you,
Rita--want you of all the world."
Rita rose to her feet, surprised and alarmed by this Grecian trick, and
Williams, stepping quickly to her side, grasped her hand. He had lost
his wonted self-control and was swept forward by the flood of his
long-pent-up emotions.
"Mr. Williams, I beg you will not--" cried Rita, endeavoring to withdraw
her hand.
"You shall listen to me," he cried, half in anger, half pleadingly. "I
have loved you as tenderly and unselfishly as woman ever was loved,
since I first knew you. I know I am not worthy of you, but I am the
equal of any other man, and you shall treat me fairly."
The girl, in alarm, struggled to free herself from his grasp, but he
held her and continued:--
"No other man can give you the love I feel for you, and you shall
respond to it."
"It is impossible, Mr. Williams," she said pleadingly. "You do not know
all. I am sorry, so sorry, to give you pain." Her ever ready tears began
to flow. "But I do not feel toward you as you wish. I--there is another.
He is--has been very near to me since I was a child, and I have promised
to be his wife this long time."
Her words were almost maddening to Williams, and he retorted as if he
were, in truth, mad.
"That country fellow? You shall never marry him! I swear it! He is a
poor, supercilious fool and doesn't know it! He has nothing in this
world, and has never seen anything beyond the limits of his father's
farm."
"He has been to New York," interrupted Rita, in all seriousness.
Williams laughed. "I tell you he is a boor. He is a--"
"He is to be my husband, Mr. Williams, and I hope you will not speak
ill of him," said Rita, with cold dignity.
"He is not to be your husband," cried Williams, angrily. "You shall be
mine--mine; do you hear? Mine! I will have you, if I must--" he caught
the girl in his arms, and pressing her head back upon the bend of his
elbow, kissed her lips to his heart's content and to his own everlasting
undoing. When he released her she started from the room, but he,
grasping her arm, detained her, saying:--
"Rita, I beg your pardon. I lost my head. I am sorry. Forgive me."
"There can be no forgiveness for you," she said, speaking slowly, "and I
wish you to let me leave the room."
"Rita, forgive me," he pleaded. "I tell you I was insane when I--I did
that. You have almost driven me mad. You can surely forgive me when you
know that my act was prompted by my love. Your heart is ready with
forgiveness and love for every one but me, and I, more than all others,
love you. I beg you to forgive me, and if I cannot have your love,
forget what I have done this night and again be my friend."
After a long, painful pause, she spoke deliberately: "I would not marry
you, Mr. Williams, if you were a king, or if I should die by reason of
refusing you. I cannot now be even your friend. I shall tell my father
and brother what you have done, and they will order you out of this
house. I will tell Dic, and he will kill you!" Her eyes, usually so
gentle, were hard and cold, as she continued: "There is the door. I hope
you will never darken it again."
She again started to leave the room, and he again detained her. He knew
that disgrace would follow exposure, and, being determined to silence
her at any cost, said angrily:--
"If you tell your father, I will take from him his store, his home, his
farm. He owes me more than all combined are worth. If you will not
listen to me through love, you shall do so from fear. I am sorry, very
sorry, for what happened. I know the consequences if you speak of it. No
one can be made to understand exactly how it happened, and I will
protect myself; of that you may be sure. If you speak of what I did,
driven to it by my love for you, I say I will turn your father and
mother into the street. They will be penniless in their old age. Your
brother Tom is a thief. He has been stealing from me ever since he came
to my office. Only last night I laid a trap for him and caught him in
the act of stealing fifty dollars. He took the money and lost it at
Welch's gambling saloon. He has taken, in all, nearly a thousand
dollars. I have submitted to his thefts on your account. I have extended
your father's notes because he is your father. But if you tell any one
that I--I kissed you to-night, or if you repeat what I have told
concerning your father and brother, your parents go to the street, and
Tom to the penitentiary. Now, do you understand me?"
"Yes."
"Will you remain silent?"
"Yes."
Then he took his hat, saying, "I have been beside myself to-night, but
it was through love for you, and you will forgive me, won't you?"
"Yes."
"And I may come again?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And we will forget all that has happened this evening and you will be
my friend?"
"Yes."
"If you will forgive me," he continued, recovering his senses, "and will
allow me the sweet privilege of your friendship, I promise never again
to speak of my love until you have given me permission. Shall it be a
compact?"
"Yes," murmured the girl.
"Will you give me your hand?" he asked. She offered the hand, and he
clasping it, said:--
"You have much to forgive, but your heart is full of gentleness, and you
have promised."
"Yes, I have promised," she returned huskily.
"Good night, Rita."
"Good night."
The girl hurried to her room, and, almost unconscious of what she was
doing, dressed for the night. During the first few minutes after she had
extinguished the candle and had crept into bed, she could not think
coherently, but soon consciousness came in an ingulfing flood.
Williams's kisses seemed to stick to her. She rubbed her lips till they
were raw, but still the clinging pollution seemed to penetrate to her
soul. Her first coherent thought, of course, was of Dic. No man but he
had ever, till that night, touched her lips, and with him a kiss was a
sacrament. Now he would scorn her. The field of her disaster seemed to
broaden, as she thought of it, and with the chastity of her lips she
felt that she had lost everything worth having in life. Abandoning her
pillow, she covered her head with the counterpane, and drawing her knees
to her breast, lay trembling and sobbing. Dic was lost to her. There
seemed to be no other possible outcome to the present situation. She
feared Williams as never before, and felt that she was in his clutches
beyond escape. The situation seemed hopeless beyond even the reach of
prayer, her usual refuge, and she did not pray. She knew of her father's
debt to Williams, and had always feared that Tom was not to be trusted.
She was convinced without evidence other than Williams's words that he
had told the truth, and she knew that ruin and disgrace for her father
and Tom waited upon a nod from the man whom she hated, and that the nod
waited upon her frown.
The next morning Rita's face lacked much of its wonted beauty. Her eyes
were red and dim, the cheeks were pale and dim, her lips were blue and
dim, and all the world, seen by her eyes, was dark and dim. The first
thing that must be done, of course, was to tell Dic of the ravaged kiss.
She had no more desire to conceal that terrible fact from him than a
wounded man has to deceive the surgeon. He must be told without delay,
even should he at once spurn her forever.
She feared Williams, bearing in mind his threat, and determined first to
pledge Dic to secrecy, and then to tell him of her disgrace. She wrote
to him, begging him to come to her at once; and he lost no time in
going.
He arrived at the Bays house an hour past noon, and Rita soon had him to
herself in the front parlor. When they entered the room and were alone
he took her hand; but she withdrew it, saying:--
"No, no; wait till you hear what has happened."
He readily saw that something terrible had transpired. "What is it,
Rita? Tell me quickly."
"I can't, Dic, till I have your solemn promise that you will never
repeat what I am about to tell you."
"But, Rita--" he began, in expostulation.
"No--no, you must promise. You must swear--if you will hear."
"I promise. I swear if you wish. What can it be?"
Then she drew him to a settee, and with downcast eyes began her piteous
story.
"Monday evening Mr. Williams came to call upon me. You know you said I
must receive him kindly. I did so. And he again asked me to--to--you
know--to marry him. When I told him it was impossible, he grew angry;
and when I became frightened and tried to leave the room, he caught me
by the hand and would not let me go. Then he told me again how
desperately he cared for me; and when I answered angrily and tried to
escape, he held me and--and--oh, Dic, I can't tell you. I thought I
could, but I can't. I--I loathe myself." She bent her head forward, and
covering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively.
"Go on, Rita. My God! you must tell me," demanded Dic.
"I know I must," she replied between sobs. "Oh, Dic, do not hate me. He
held me to him as you sometimes do,--but, oh, it was so different. I was
helpless, and he bent back my head and kissed me on the lips till I
thought I should faint."
"The cowardly hound. He shall pay dearly for his--"
"I have your promise, your oath," said the girl, interrupting him.
"But, Rita--"
"I trusted you, Dic, and I know you will faithfully keep your promise.
Father owes Williams a large sum of money, and Tom has been stealing
from him." Here she began to weep. "He will ruin father and send Tom to
the penitentiary if he learns that I have told you this. He told me he
would, and I promised I would tell no one; but my duty to you is higher
than my duty to keep my promise. Now you know why I held you off when we
came in here."
"No, I don't know," he replied. "You have not promised to marry him?"
"No, no," she returned excitedly.
"Then why did you refuse me?"
"I'm not worthy to be your wife. I feel that I have been contaminated,"
she answered.
"No, no, girl," he cried joyfully. "It was not your fault. The falling
snow is not purer than you, and truth itself is not truer than your
heart. I go to New York soon, and when I return all your troubles will
cease."
"They have ceased already, Dic," she murmured, placing her head upon his
breast, while tears fell unheeded over her cheeks. "I thought an hour
ago I should never again be happy, but I am happy already. Dic, you are
a wonderful man to produce such a change in so short a time."
"I am wonderful only in what you give me," he answered.
"How beautifully you speak," she whispered; but the remainder of that
interview is not at all necessary to this story.
Dic left Rita late in the afternoon and met Williams on the street down
town. They could not easily pass each other without exchanging words, so
they stopped and spoke stiffly about the weather, past, present, and
future. Dic tried to conceal all traces of resentment, and partially
succeeded. Williams, still smarting from his troubles and mistakes with
Rita, and hating Dic accordingly, concealed his feelings with poor
success. The hatred of these men for each other was plain in every word
and act, and in a few moments, Williams, unable longer to bear the
strain, said:--
"This sham between us is disgusting. Let us settle our differences as
gentlemen adjust such affairs."
"Do you mean that we shall fight it out?" asked Dic.
"Yes," returned Williams. "You are not afraid to fight, are you?"
"No, and yes," answered Dic. "I have had but few fights--I fear I could
not go into a fight in cold blood and--and for many reasons I do not
wish to fight you."
"I supposed you would decline. I knew you to be a coward," sneered
Williams, growing brave upon seeing Dic's disinclination.
"No," responded Dic, calmly looking into Williams's face, "I have
nothing to fear from you. You could not stand against me even for one
minute."
"But you misunderstand me," said Williams. "I do not wish to fight with
my fists. That is the method of ruffians and country bullies. I am not
surprised at your mistake."
Dic laughed softly and replied: "I do not know why your words don't
anger me. Perhaps because I pity you. I can afford to be magnanimous and
submit to your ravings; therefore, I am neither angry nor afraid."
"I propose to settle our difficulty as gentlemen adjust such affairs,"
said Williams. "Of course, you know nothing about the methods of
gentlemen. I challenge you to meet me in a duel. Now do you
understand--understand?"
Williams was nervous, and there was a murderous gleam in his eyes. Dic's
heart throbbed faster for a moment, but soon took again its regular
beat. He rapidly thought over the situation and said:--
"I don't want to kill you and don't want you to kill me." He paused for
a moment with a smile on his lips and continued: "Suppose we let the
girl decide this between us. But perhaps I am again showing my ignorance
of gentlemanly methods. Do gentlemen force their attentions upon
unwilling ladies?"
"Oh, if you refuse," retorted Williams, ignoring his question, "I can
slap your face now in the public streets."
"Don't do it, Williams," responded Dic, looking to the ground and trying
to remain calm.
"Why?" Williams asked.
"Because--I will fight you if you insist, without the occasion of a
street brawl. Another name might be brought into that."
"Am I to understand that you accept my challenge?" asked Williams.
"Yes, if you insist," replied Dic, calmly, as if he were accepting an
invitation to dinner. "I have always supposed that this sort of an
affair should be arranged between gentlemen by their friends; but of
course I don't know how gentlemen act under these circumstances. Perhaps
you don't consider me a gentleman, and you certainly must have some
doubts in your mind concerning yourself; therefore, it may be proper for
us to arrange this little matter with each other."
"I suppose you would prefer seconds," returned Williams. "They might
prevent a meeting."
After a few moments of silence Dic said, "If we fight, I fear another
person's name will be dragged into our quarrel."
"You may, if you wish, find plenty of excuses," returned Roger. "If you
wish to accept my challenge, do so. If not, say so, and I will take my
own course."
"Oh, I'll accept," returned Dic, cheerily. "As the challenged party, if
we were gentlemen, I believe I might choose the weapons."
"Yes," responded Williams.
"What do you suppose would be the result were I to choose rifles at two
hundred yards?" asked Dic, with an ugly smile on his face.
"I should be delighted," responded the other. "I expected you to choose
hoes or pitchforks."
"I think it fair to tell you," said Dic, "that I can hit a silver dollar
four times out of five shots at two hundred yards, and you will probably
do well to hit a barn door once out of ten at that distance. I will let
you see me shoot before I definitely choose weapons. Afterwards, if you
prefer some other, I will abide your choice."
"I am satisfied with your choice," responded Williams, who prided
himself upon his rifle-shooting, in which accomplishment Dic had
underrated his antagonist.
"We must adopt some plan to prevent people from connecting another
person with this affair," suggested Dic. "If you will come down to
Bays's farm for a day's hunting, I will meet you there, and the result
may be attributed by the survivor to a hunting accident."
"The plan suits me," said Williams. "I'll meet you there to-morrow at
noon. I'll tell Tom I have an engagement to go squirrel-hunting with
you."
Dic rode home, and of course carried the news of his forthcoming duel to
Billy Little.
"There are worse institutions in this world than the duel," remarked
Billy, much to his listener's surprise. "It helps to thin out the
fools."
"But, Billy Little, I must fight him," responded Dic. "He insists, and
will not accept my refusal. He says I am afraid to fight him."
"If he should say you were a blackamoor, I suppose you would be black,"
retorted Billy. "Is that the way of it?"
"But I am glad he does not give me an opportunity to refuse," said Dic.
"I supposed as much," answered Billy. "You will doubtless be delighted
if he happens to put a bullet through you, and will surely be happy for
life if you kill him."
"It is his doing, Billy Little," said Dic, with an ugly gleam in his
eyes, "and I would not balk him. Billy Little, I would fight that man if
I knew I should hang for it the next day. I'll tell you--he grossly
insulted Rita Monday evening. He held her by force and kissed her lips
till she was hardly conscious."
"Good God!" cried Billy, springing to his feet and trembling with
excitement. "Fight him, Dic! Kill him, Dic! Kill the brute! If you
don't, by the good God, I will."
"You need not urge me, Billy Little. I'm quite willing enough. Still I
hope I shall not kill him."
"You hope you will not kill him?" demanded Billy. "If you do not, I
will. Where do you meet?"
"He will be at Bays's house to-morrow noon, and we will go up to my
cleared eighty, half a mile north. There we will step off a course of
two hundred yards and fire. Whatever happens we will say was the result
of a hunting accident."
Billy determined to be in hiding near the field of battle, and was
secreted in the forest adjoining the cleared eighty an hour before noon
next day. Late in the morning Dic took his rifle and walked down to the
Bays's house. I shall not try to describe his sensations.
Williams was waiting, and Dic found him carefully examining his gun. The
gun contained a bullet which, Dic thought, with small satisfaction,
might within a short time end his worldly troubles, and the troubles
seemed more endurable than ever before. Sleep had cooled his brain since
his conversation with Billy, and he could not work himself into a
murderous state of mind. He possessed Rita, and love made him
magnanimous. He did not want to fight, though fear was no part of his
reluctance. The manner of his antagonist soon left no doubt in Dic's
mind that the battle was sure to come off. Something in
Williams--perhaps it was his failure to meet his enemy's eyes--alarmed
Dic's suspicions, and for a moment he feared treachery at the hands of
his morose foe; but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and opening
the gate started up the river path, taking the lead. He was ashamed to
show his distrust of Williams, though he could not entirely throw it
off, and the temptation to turn his head now and then to watch his
following enemy was irresistible. They had been walking but a few
minutes when Dic, prompted by distrust, suddenly turned his head and
looked into the barrel of a gun held firmly to the shoulder of our
gentleman from Boston. With the nimbleness of a cat, Dic sprang to one
side, and a bullet whistled past his face. One second later in turning
his head and the hunting accident would have occurred.
After the shot Williams in great agitation said:--
"I saw a squirrel and have missed it."
"You may walk ahead," answered Dic, with not a nerve ruffled. "You might
see another squirrel."
Williams began to reload his gun, but Dic interrupted the proceeding.
"Don't load now. We will soon reach the clearing."
Williams continued reloading, and was driving the patch down upon the
powder. Dic cocked his rifle, and raising it halfway to his shoulder,
said:--
"Don't put the bullet in unless you wish me to see a squirrel. I'll not
miss. Throw me your bullet pouch."
Williams, whose face looked like a mask of death, threw the bullet pouch
to Dic, and, in obedience to a gesture, walked forward on the path.
After taking a few steps he looked backward to observe the man he had
tried to murder.
"You need not watch me," Dic said; "I'm not hunting squirrels."
Soon they reached the open field. Dic had cleared every foot of the
ground, and loved it because he had won it single-handed in a battle
royal with nature; but nature was a royal foe that, when conquered, gave
royal spoils of victory. The rich bottom soil had year by year repaid
Dic many-fold for his labor. He loved the land, and if fate should prove
unkind to him, he would choose that spot of all others upon which to
fall.
"Is this the place?" asked Williams.
"Yes," answered Dic, tossing the bullet pouch. "Now you may load."
When Williams had finished loading, Dic said: "I will drop my hat here.
We will walk from each other, you going west, I going east. The sun is
in the south. When we have each taken one hundred steps, we will call
'Ready,' turn, and fire when we choose."
Accordingly, Dic dropped his hat, and the two men started, one toward
the east, one toward the west, while the sun was shining in the south.
Williams quickly ran his hundred steps.
Dic had counted forty steps when he heard the cry "Dic" coming from the
forest ten yards to the south, and simultaneously the sharp crack of a
rifle behind him. At the same instant his left leg gave way under him
and he fell to the ground, supposing he had stepped into a muskrat hole.
After he had fallen he turned quickly toward Williams and saw that
gentleman hastily reloading his gun. Then he fully realized that his
antagonist had shot him, though he was unable to account for the voice
he had heard from the forest. That mystery, too, was quickly explained
when he heard Billy's dearly loved voice calling to Williams:--
"Drop that gun, or you die within a second."
Turning to the left Dic saw his friend holding the rifle which had
fallen from his own hands when he went down, and the little fellow
looked the picture of determined ferocity. Williams dropped his gun. Dic
was sitting upright where he had fallen, and Billy, handing him the
weapon, said:--
"Kill him, Dic; kill him as you would a wolf. I'm afraid if I shoot I'll
miss him, and then he will reload and kill you."
Williams was a hundred and forty yards away, but Dic could easily have
pierced his heart. He took the gun and lifted it to his shoulder.
Williams stood motionless as a tree upon a calm day. Dic lowered his
gun, but after a pause lifted it again and covered Williams's heart. He
held the gun to his shoulder for a second or two, then he threw it to
the ground, saying:--
"I can't kill him. Tell him to go, Billy Little. Tell him to go before I
kill him."
[Illustration: "'KILL HIM, DIC; KILL HIM AS YOU WOULD A WOLF.'"]
Williams took up his gun from the ground and started to leave, when Dic
said to Billy Little:--
"Tell him to leave his bullets."
Williams dropped the bullet pouch without a command from Billy, and
again started to leave. Dic tried to rise to his feet, but failed.
"I guess I'm wounded," he said hoarsely. "My God, Billy Little, look at
the blood I've lost! I--I feel weak--and--and dizzy. I believe I'm going
to faint," and he accordingly did so. Billy cut away the trousers from
Dic's wounded leg, disclosing a small round hole in the thigh. The blood
was issuing in ugly spurts, and at once Billy knew an artery had been
wounded. He tore the trousers leg into shreds and made a tourniquet
which he tied firmly above the wound and soon the haemorrhage was greatly
reduced. By the time the tourniquet was adjusted, Williams was well down
towards the river, and Billy called to him:--
"Go up the river to the first house and tell Mrs. Bright to send the man
down with the wagon. Perhaps if you assist us, the theory of the
accident will be more plausible."
Williams did as directed. Dic was taken home. Within an hour Kennedy,
summoned by an unwilling messenger, was by the wounded man's side. Billy
Little was watching with Dic's mother, anxious to hear the doctor's
verdict. There was still another anxious watcher, our pink and white
little nymph, Sukey, though the pink had, for the time, given way to the
white. She made no effort to conceal her grief, and was willing that all
who looked might see her love for the man who was lying on the bed
unconscious.
Williams remained with Bays's tenant till next day, and then returned to
Indianapolis, carrying the news of the "accident."
THE LOVE POWDER