THE LOVE POWDER
Rita was with her mother when she received the terrible news. Of course
the accident was the theme of conversation, and Rita was in deep
trouble. Even Mrs. Bays was moved by the calamity that had befallen the
man whose face, since his early boyhood, had been familiar in her own
house. At first Rita made no effort to express her grief.
"It is too bad, too bad," was the extent of Mrs. Bays's comment. Taking
courage from even so meagre an expression of sympathy, Rita begged that
she might go home--she still called the banks of Blue her home--and help
Mrs. Bright nurse Dic. Mrs. Bays gazing sternly at the malefactor,
uttered the one word "No," and Rita's small spark of hope was
extinguished almost before it had been kindled.
Within a few days Billy Little went to see Rita, and relieved her of
anxiety concerning Dic. Before he left he told her that Sukey was
staying with Mrs. Bright and assisting in the nursing and the work.
"I have been staying there at night," said Billy, "and Sukey hangs about
the bed at all hours."
Billy did not wish to cause jealousy in Rita's breast, but hoped to
induce her to expostulate gently with Dic about the attentions he
permitted himself to receive from the dimpler. For a minute or two his
words caused a feeling of troubled jealousy in Rita's heart, but she
soon dismissed it as unworthy of her, and unjust to Dic and Sukey. To
that young lady she wrote: "I am not permitted to nurse him, and I thank
you for taking my place. I shall remember your goodness so long as I
live."
The letter should have aroused in Sukey's breast high impulses and pure
motives; but it brought from her red lips, amid their nest of dimples,
the contemptuous expletive "Fool," and I am not sure that she was
entirely wrong. A due respect for the attractiveness and willingness of
her sisters is wise in a woman. Rita's lack of wisdom may be excused
because of the fact that her trust in Sukey was really a part of her
faith in Dic.
Thus it came to pass that Dic did not go to New York, but was confined
to his home for several months with a fractured thigh bone. During that
period Rita was in constant prayer and Sukey in daily attendance. The
dimpler's never ceasing helpfulness to Dic and his mother won his
gratitude, while the dangerous twinkling of the dimples and the pretty
sheen of her skin became familiar to him as household gods. He had never
respected the girl, nor was his respect materially augmented by her
kindness, which at times overleaped itself; but his gratitude increased
his affection, and his sentiment changed from one of almost repugnance
to a kindly feeling of admiration for her seductive beauty, regard for
her kindly heart, and pleasure in her never failing good temper.
Sukey still clung to her dominion over several hearts, receiving them
upon their allotted evenings; and although she had grown passionately
fond of Dic, she gave a moiety of kindness to her subjects, each in his
turn. She easily convinced each that he was the favored one, and that
the others were friends and were simply tolerated. She tried no such
coquetry with Dic, but gladly fed upon such crumbs as he might throw
her. If he unduly withheld the crumbs, she, unable to resist her
yearning for the unattainable, at times lost all maidenly reserve, and
by eloquent little signs and pleadings sought them at the hand of her
Dives. The heart of a coquette is to be won only by running away from
it, and Dic's victory over Sukey was achieved in retreat.
During Dic's illness Tom's heart, quickened doubtless by jealousy, had
grown more and more to yearn for Sukey's manifold charms, physical and
temperamental. Billy Little, who did not like Sukey, said her charms
were "dimple-mental"; but Billy's heart was filled with many curious
prejudices, and Tom's judgment was much more to be relied upon in this
case.
One morning when Sukey entered Dic's room she said: "Tom was to see me
last night. He said he would come up to see you to-day."
"He meant that he will come up to see you," replied Dic, teasing her.
"One of these times I'll lose another friend to Indianapolis, and when I
go up there with my country ways you won't know me."
"I'll never go to Indianapolis," Sukey responded, with a demure glance.
"Dear old Blue is good enough for me. The nearer I can live to it, the
better I shall be satisfied." Dic's lands were on the river banks, while
those of Sukey's father were a mile to the east.
"If you lived too close to the river, you might fall in," returned Dic,
choosing to take Sukey's remark in jest.
"I'm neither sugar nor salt," she retorted, "and I would not melt. I'm
sure I'm not sugar--"
"But sugarish," interrupted Dic.
"_You_ don't think I'm even sugarish," she returned poutingly.
"Indeed I do," he replied; "but you must not tell Tom I said so."
"Why not?" asked Sukey. "He's nothing to me--simply a friend."
So the conversation would run, and Sukey, by judicious fishing, caught a
minnow now and then.
* * * * *
During the latter days of Dic's convalescence, Sukey paid a visit to her
friend Rita, and the girls from Blue attracted the beaux of the capital
city in great numbers. For the first time in Sukey's life she felt that
she had found a battle-field worthy of her prowess, and in truth she
really did great slaughter. Balls, hay rides, autumn picnics, and
nutting parties occurred in rapid succession. Tom and Williams were, of
course, as Tom expressed it, "Johnny on the spot," with our girls.
After Rita's stormy interview with Williams she had, through fear,
continued to receive him in friendliness. At first the friendliness was
all assumed; but as the weeks passed, and he, by every possible means,
assured her that his rash act was sincerely repented, and under no
conditions was to be repeated, she gradually recovered her faith in him.
Her heart was so prone to forgive that it was an easy task to impose
upon it, and soon Williams, the Greek, was again encamped within the
walls of trusting Troy. He frequently devoted himself to other young
ladies, and our guileless little heroine joyfully reached the conclusion
that she no longer reigned queen of his cultured heart. For this reason
she became genuinely kind to him, and he accordingly gave her much of
his company during the month of Sukey's visit.
One day a nutting party, including our four friends, set forth on their
way up White River. At the mouth of Fall Creek was a gypsy camp, and the
young folks stopped to have their fortunes told. The camp consisted of a
dozen covered wagons, each containing a bed, a stove, and cooking
utensils. To each wagon belonged a woman who was able and anxious to
foretell the future for the small sum of two bits. Our friends selected
the woman who was oldest and ugliest, those qualities having long been
looked upon as attributes of wisdom. Rita, going first, climbed over the
front wheel of the ugliest old woman's covered wagon, and entered the
temple of its high priestess. The front curtain was then drawn. The
interior of the wagon was darkened, and the candle in a small red
lantern was lighted. The hag took a cage from the top of the wagon where
it had been suspended, and when she opened the door a small screech owl
emerged and perched upon the shoulders of its mistress. There it
fluttered its wings and at short intervals gave forth a smothered
screech, allowing the noise to die away in its throat in a series of
disagreeable gurgles. When the owl was seated upon the hag's shoulder,
she took from a box a half-torpid snake, and entwined it about her neck.
With the help of these symbols of wisdom and cunning she at once began
to evoke her familiar spirits. To this end she made weird passes through
the air with her clawlike hands, crying in a whispered, high-pitched
wail the word, "Labbayk, labbayk," an Arabian word meaning "Here am I."
Rita was soon trembling with fright, and begged the hag to allow her to
leave the wagon.
"Sit where you are, girl," commanded the gypsy in sepulchral tones. "If
you attempt to pass, the snake will strike you and the owl will tear
you. The spirit of wisdom is in our presence. The Stone God has already
told me your fate. It is worth your while to hear it."
Rita placed her trembling hand in the hag's claw.
"No purer woman ever lived than you," began the sorceress; "but if you
marry the dark man who awaits you outside, you will become evil; you
will be untrue to him; you will soon leave him in company with another
man who is light of complexion, tall, and strong. Disgrace and ruin
await your family if you marry the light man. Even the Stone God cannot
foretell a woman's course when love draws her in opposite directions.
May the Stone God pity you."
The hag's ominous words, fitting so marvellously the real situation,
frightened Rita and she cried, "Please let me out," but the gypsy held
her hand, saying:--
"Sit still, ye fool; sit and listen. For one shilling I will teach you a
spell which you may throw over the man you despise, and he will wither
and die; then you may marry the one of your choice, and all evil shall
be averted."
"No, no!" screamed the girl, rising to her feet and forcing her way to
the front of the wagon. In passing the witch she stumbled, and in
falling, grasped the snake. The owl screeched, and Rita sprang screaming
from the wagon-seat to the ground.
Sukey's turn came next, and although Rita begged her not to enter the
gypsy's den, our lady of the dimples climbed over the front wheel, eager
for forbidden fruit.
The hideous witch, the owl, and the snake for a moment frightened Sukey;
but she, true daughter of Eve, hungered for apples, and was determined
to eat.
After foretelling numerous journeys, disappointments, and pleasures
which would befall Sukey, the gypsy said:--
"You have many admirers, but there is one that remains indifferent to
your charms. You may win him, girl, if you wish."
"How?" cried Sukey, with eagerness.
"I can give you a love powder by which you may cause him to love you. I
cannot sell it; but a gift for a gift is no barter. If you will give me
gold, I will give you the powder."
"I have no money with me," answered Sukey; "but I will come to-morrow
and bring you a gold piece."
"It must be gold," said the hag, feeling sure of her prey. "A gift of
baser metal would kill the charm."
"I will bring gold," answered Sukey. Laden with forbidden knowledge and
hope, she sprang from the front wheel into Tom's arms, and was very
happy.
That night she asked Rita, "Have you a gold dollar?"
"Yes," replied Rita, hesitatingly, "I have a gold dollar and three
shillings. I'm saving my money until Christmas. I want five dollars to
buy a--" She stopped speaking, not caring to tell that she had for
months been keeping her eyes on a trinket for Dic. "I am not
accumulating very rapidly," she continued laughing, "and am beginning to
fear I shall not be able to save that much by Christmas."
"Will you loan it to me--the gold dollar?" asked Sukey.
"Yes," returned Rita, somewhat reluctantly, having doubts of Sukey's
intention and ability to repay. But she handed over the gold dollar with
which the borrower hoped to steal the lender's lover.
Next day Sukey asked Tom to drive her to the gypsy camp, but she did not
explain that her purpose was to buy a love powder with which she hoped
to win another man. Sukey, with all her amiable disposition,--Billy
Little used to say she was as good-natured as a hound pup,--was a girl
who could kiss your lips, gaze innocently into your eyes, and betray you
to Caesar, all unconscious of her own perfidy. Rita was her friend. Still
she unblushingly borrowed her money, hoping therewith to steal Dic. Tom
was her encouraged lover; still she wished him to help her in obtaining
the love powder by which she might acquire the love of another man.
Sukey was generous; but the world and the people thereof were made for
her use, and she, of course, would use them. She did not know she was
false--but why should I dwell upon poor Sukey's peccadilloes as if she
were the only sinner, or responsible for her sins? Who is responsible
for either sin or virtue?
Rita deserved no praise for being true, pure, gentle, and unselfish.
Those qualities were given with her heart. The Chief Justice should not
be censured because she held peculiar theories of equity and looked upon
the words "as we forgive those who trespass against us" as mere
surplusage. She was born with her theories and opinions. Sukey should
not be blamed because of her dimples and her too complacent smiles. For
what purpose were dimples and smiles created save to give pleasure, and
incidentally to cause trouble? But I promise there shall be no more
philosophizing for many pages to come.
Sukey, by the help of Tom and Rita, purchased her love powder, and,
being eager to administer it, informed Rita that evening that she
intended to return home next morning. Accordingly, she departed, leaving
Rita to receive alone the attentions of her persistent lover.
Within a week or two after Sukey's return, Dic, having almost recovered,
went to see Rita. He was not able to go a-horseback, so he determined to
take the stage, and Billy Little went with him as body-guard.
While they waited for the coach in Billy's back room, Williams became
the topic of conversation.
"He will marry Rita in spite of you," said Billy, "if you don't take her
soon. What do you say? Shall we bring her home with us to-morrow? She
was eighteen last week." Billy was eager to carry off the girl, for he
knew the Williams danger, and stood in dread of it. Dic sprang from his
chair, delighted with the proposition. The thought of possessing Rita
to-morrow carried with it a flood of rapturous emotions.
"How can we bring her?" he asked. "We can't kidnap her from her mother."
"Perhaps Rita may be induced to kidnap herself," remarked Billy. "If we
furnish the plan, do you believe Rita will furnish the girl? Will she
come with us?" You see Billy, as well as Dic, was eloping with this
young lady.
"Yes, she will come when I ask her," returned Dic, with confidence.
After staring at the young man during a full minute, Billy said: "I am
afraid all my labor upon you has been wasted. If you are so great a fool
as not--do you mean to say you have never asked her to go with you--run
away--elope?"
"I have never asked her to elope," returned Dic, with an expression of
doubt in his face. Billy's words had aroused him to a knowledge of the
fact that he was not at all the man for this situation.
"You understand it is this way," continued Dic, in explanation of his
singular neglect. "Rita does not see her mother with our eyes. She
believes her to be a perfect woman. She believes every one is good; but
her mother has, for so many years, sounded the clarion of her own
virtues, that Rita takes the old woman at her own valuation, and holds
her to be a saint in virtue, and a feminine Solomon in wisdom. Rita
believes her mother the acme of intelligent, protecting kindness, and
looks upon her cruelty as the result of parental love, meant entirely
for the daughter's own good. I have not wanted to pain my future wife by
causing a break with her mother. Should Rita run off with me, there
would be no forgiveness for her in the breast of Justice."
"The girl, doubtless, could live happily without it," answered Billy.
"Not entirely happy," returned Dic. "She would grieve. You don't know
what a tender heart it is, Billy Little. There is not another like it in
all the world. Had it not been for that consideration, I would have been
selfish enough to bring her home with me when she offered to come, and
would--"
"Mighty Moses!" cried Billy, springing to his feet. "She offered to go
with you?"
"Yes," replied Dic; "she said when last I saw her, 'You should have
taken me long ago.'"
"And--and you"--Billy paused for breath and danced excitedly about the
room--"and you did not--you--you, oh--Maxwelton's braes--and you--Ah,
well, there is nothing to be gained by talking to you upon that subject.
What _do_ you think of the administration? Jackson is a hickory
blockhead, eh? Congress a stupendous aggregation of asses. Yes,
everybody is an ass, of course; but there is one who is monumental.
Monumental, I say. Monu--ah, well--Maxwelton's braes are
bonny--um--um--um--um--damn!" And Billy sat down disgusted, turning his
face from Dic.
After a long pause Dic spoke: "I believe you are right, Billy Little. I
should have brought her."
"Believe--" cried the angry little friend. "Don't you know it? The _pons
asinorum_ is a mere hypothesis compared to the demonstration in this
case."
"But she was not of age, and could not marry without her parents'
consent," said Dic. "Had I brought her home, we could have found no one
to perform the ceremony."
"I would have done it quickly enough; I am a justice of the peace. I
could have done it as well as forty preachers. I should have been fined
for transgressing the law in marrying you without a license, but I would
have done it, and it would have been as legal as if it had taken place
in a cathedral. We could have paid the fine between us."
"Well, what's to be done?" asked Dic, after a long, awkward pause. "It's
not too late."
"Yes, it's too late," answered Billy. "I wash my hands of the whole
affair. When a man can get a girl like Rita, and throws away his chance,
he's beyond hope. I supposed you had bought her for twenty-six hundred
dollars--you will never see a penny of it again--and a bargain at the
price. She is worth twenty-six hundred million; but if you could not buy
her, you should have borrowed, stolen, kidnapped--anything to get her.
Now what do you think of yourself?"
"Not much, Billy Little, not much," answered Dic, regretfully. "But you
should have said all this to me long ago. Advice after the fact is like
meat after a feast--distasteful."
"Ah, you are growing quite epigrammatic," said Billy, snappishly; "but
there is some truth in your contention. We will begin again. When we see
Rita, we will formulate a plan and try to thwart Justice."
"What plan have you in mind?" asked Dic, eager to discuss the subject.
"I have none," Billy replied. "Rita will perhaps furnish both the plan
and the girl."
Dic did not relish the suggestion that Rita would be willing to take so
active a part in the transaction, and said:--
"I fear you do not know Rita. She is not bold enough to do what you
hope. If she will come with us, it will be all I can expect. We must do
the planning."
"You say she offered to come with you?" asked Billy.
"Y-e-s," responded Dic, hesitatingly; "but she is the most timid of
girls, and we shall need to be very persuasive if--"
Billy laughed and interrupted him: "All theory, Dic; all theory and
wrong. 'Deed, if I knew you were such a fool! The gentlest and most
guileless of women are the bravest and boldest under the stress of a
great motive. The woman who is capable of great love is sure also to
have the capacity for great courage. I know Rita better than you
suppose, and, mark my words, she will furnish both the plan and the
girl; and if you grow supercilious, egad! I'll take her myself."
"I'll not grow supercilious. She is perfect, and anything she'll do will
be all right. I can't believe she is really to be mine. It seems more
like a castle in the air than a real fact."
"It is not a fact yet," returned Billy, croakingly; "and if this trip
doesn't make it a fact, I venture to prophesy you will have an
untenanted aerial structure on your hands before long."
"You don't believe anything of the sort, Billy Little," said Dic. "I
can't lose her. It couldn't happen. It couldn't."
"We'll see. There's the stage horn. Let us hurry out and get an inside
seat. The sky looks overcast, and I shouldn't like to have this coat
rained upon. There's a fine piece of cloth, Dic. Feel it." Dic complied.
"Soft as silk, isn't it?" continued Billy. "They don't make such cloth
in these days of flimsy woolsey. Got it thirty years ago from the famous
Schwitzer on Cork Street. Tailor shop there for ages. Small shop--dingy
little hole, but that man Schwitzer was an artist. Made garments for all
the beaux. Brummel used to draw his own patterns in that shop--in that
very shop, Dic. Think of wearing a coat made by Brummel's tailor.
Remarkable man that, Brummel--George Bryan Brummel. Good head, full of
good brains. Son of a confectioner; friend of a prince. Upon one
occasion the Prince of Wales wept because Brummel made sport of his
coat. Yes, egad! blubbered. I used to know him well. Knew the 'First
Gentleman' of Europe, too, the Prince of Wales. Won a thousand and
eleven pounds from Brummel one night at whist. He paid the eleven and
still owes the thousand. Had a letter from him less than a year ago,
saying he hoped to pay me some day; but bless your soul, Dic, he'll
never be able to pay a farthing. He's in France now, because he owes
nearly every one in England. Fine gentleman, though, fine gentleman,
every inch of him. Well, this coat was made by his tailor. You don't
blame me for taking good care of it, do you?"
"Indeed not," answered Dic, amused, though in sympathy with Beau
Brummel's friend.
"I have two vests in my trunk by the same artist," continued Billy. "I
don't wear them now. They won't button over my front. I'll show them to
you some day."
At this point in the conversation our friends stepped into the stage
coach. Others being present, Billy was silent as an owl at noonday. With
one or two sympathetic listeners Billy was a magpie; with many, he was a
stork--he loved companionship, but hated company.
Arriving at Indianapolis, our worthy kidnappers sought the house of
unsuspecting Justice, and were received with a frigid dignity becoming
that stern goddess. Dic, wishing to surprise Rita, had not informed her
of his intended visit. After waiting a few minutes he asked, "Where is
Rita?"
"She is sick," responded Mrs. Bays. "She has not been out of her bed for
three days. We have had two doctors with her. She took seven different
kinds of medicine all yesterday, and to-day she has been very bad."
"No wonder," remarked Billy; "it's a miracle she isn't dead. Seven
different kinds! It's enough to have killed a horse. Fortunately she is
young and very strong."
"Well, I'm sure she would have died without them," answered Mrs. Bays.
"You believe six different kinds would not have saved her, eh?" asked
Billy.
"Something saved her. It must have been the medicine," replied Mrs.
Bays, partly unconscious of Billy's irony. She was one of the many
millions who always accept the current humbug in whatever form he comes.
Let us not, however, speak lightly of the humble humbug. Have you ever
considered how empty this world would be without his cheering presence?
You notice I give the noun "humbug" the masculine gender. The feminine
members of our race have faults, but great, monumental, world-pervading
humbugs are masculine, one and all, from the old-time witch doctor and
Druid priest down to the--but Mrs. Bays was speaking:--
"The doctors worked with her for four hours last night, and when they
left she was almost dead."
"Almost?" interrupted Billy. "Fortunate girl!"
"I hope I may see her," asked Dic, timidly.
"No, you can't," replied Mrs. Bays with firmness. "She's in bed, and I
_hardly_ think it would be the proper thing."
"Dic!" called a weak little voice from the box stairway leading from the
room above. "Dic!" And that young man sprang to the stairway door with
evident intent to mount. Mrs. Bays hurried after him, crying:--
"You shall not go up there. She's in bed, I tell you. You can't see
her."
Billy rose to his feet and stood behind her. When Dic stopped, at the
command of Mrs. Bays, Billy made an impatient gesture and pointed to the
room above, emphasizing the movement with a look that plainly said, "Go
on, you fool," and Dic went.
Mrs. Bays turned quickly upon Billy, but his pale countenance was as
expressionless as usual, and he was examining his finger tips with such
care one might have supposed them to be rare natural curiosities.
"Ah, Dic," cried the same little voice from the bed, when that young man
entered the room, and two white arms, from which the sleeves had fallen
back, were held out to him as the pearly gates might open to a wandering
soul.
Dic knelt by the bedside, and the white arms entwined themselves about
his neck. He spoke to her rapturously, and placed his cool cheek
against her feverish face. Then the room grew dark to the girl, her eyes
closed, and she fainted.
Dic thought she was dead, and in an agony of alarm placed his ear to her
heart, hoping to hear its beating. No human motive could have been purer
than Dic's. Of that fact I know you are sure, else I have written of him
in vain; but when Mrs. Bays entered the room and saw him, she was
pleased to cry out:--
"Help! help! he has insulted my daughter."
Billy mounted the stairway in three jumps, a feat he had not performed
in twenty years, and when he entered the room Mrs. Bays pointed
majestically to the man kneeling by Rita's bed.
"Take that man from my house, Mr. Little," cried Mrs. Bays in a
sepulchral, judicial tone of voice. "He broke into her room and insulted
my sick daughter when she was unconscious."
Dic remained upon his knees by the bedside, and did not fully grasp the
meaning of his accuser's words. Billy stepped to Rita's side, and taking
her unresisting hand hastily sought her pulse. Then he spoke gruffly to
Mrs. Bays, who had wrought herself into a spasm of injured virtue.
"She has fainted," cried Billy. "Fetch cold water quickly, and a drop of
whiskey."
Mrs. Bays hastened downstairs, and Dic followed her.
"Get the whiskey," he cried. "I'll fetch the water," and a few seconds
thereafter Billy was dashing cold water in Rita's face. The great brown
eyes opened, and the half-conscious girl, thinking that Dic was still
leaning over her, lifted her arms and gave poor old Billy a moment in
paradise, by entwining them about his neck. He enjoyed the delicious
sensation for a brief instant, and said:--
"I'm Billy Little, Rita, not Dic." Then the eyes opened wider as
consciousness returned, and she said:--
"I thought Dic was here."
"Yes--yes, Rita," said Dic, "I am here. I was by your side a moment
since. I came so suddenly upon you that you fainted; then Billy Little
took my place."
"And you thought I was Dic," said Billy, laughingly.
"I'm glad I did," answered the girl with a rare smile, again placing her
arms about his neck and drawing his face down to hers; "for I love you
also very, very dearly." Billy's heart sprang backward thirty years, and
thumped away astonishingly. At that moment Mrs. Bays returned with the
whiskey, and Billy prepared a mild toddy.
"The doctor said she must not have whiskey while the fever lasts,"
interposed Mrs. Bays.
"We'll try it once," replied Billy, "and if it kills her, we'll not try
it again. Here, Rita, take a spoonful of this."
Dic lifted her head, and Billy administered the deadly potion, while the
humbug lover stood by, confidently expecting dire results, but too much
subdued by the situation to interpose an objection.
Soon Rita asked that two pillows be placed under her head, and, sitting
almost upright in bed, declared she felt better than for several days.
Mrs. Bays knew that Dic's motive had been pure and spotless, but she had
no intention of relinquishing the advantage of her false position. She
had for months been seeking an excuse to turn Dic from her house, and
now that it had come, she would not lose it. Going to Rita's side, she
again took up her theme:--
"No wonder my poor sick daughter fainted when she was insulted. I can't
tell you, Mr. Little, what I saw when I entered this room."
"Oh, mother," cried Rita, "you were wrong. You do not understand. When I
saw Dic, I held up my arms to him, and he came to me because I wanted
him."
"_You_ don't know, my daughter, you don't know," interrupted Mrs. Bays.
"I would not have you know. But I will protect my daughter, my own flesh
and blood, against insult at the cost of my life, if need be. I have
devoted my life to her; I have toiled and suffered for her since I gave
her birth, and no man shall enter my house and insult her while I have
strength to protect her." She gathered force while she spoke, and talked
herself into believing what she knew was false, as you and I may easily
do in very important matters if we try.
"My dear woman," said Billy, in surprise bordering on consternation,
"you don't mean you wish us to believe that you believe that Dic
insulted Rita?"
"Yes, I saw him insult her. I saw it with my own eyes."
"In what manner?" demanded Dic.
He was beginning to grasp the meaning of her accusation, and was
breathing heavily from suppressed excitement. Before she could reply he
fully understood, and a wave of just anger swept over him.
"Old woman, you know you lie!" he cried. "I revere the tips of Rita's
fingers, and no unholy thought of her has ever entered my mind. _I_
insult her! You boast of your mother's love. You have no love for her of
any sort. You have given her nothing but hard, cold cruelty all her life
under the pretence--perhaps belief--that you were kind; but if your love
were the essence of mother love, it would be as nothing compared to my
man's love for the girl who will one day be my wife and bear my
children."
The frightened old woman shrank from Dic and silently took a chair by
the window. Then Dic turned to the bed, saying:--
"Forgive me, Rita, forgive me. I was almost beside myself for a moment.
Tell me that you know I would not harm you."
"Of course you would do me no harm," she replied sobbing. "You could
not. You would be harming yourself. But how could you speak so violently
to my mother? You were terrible, and I was frightened. How could you?
How could you?"
"I was wild with anger--but I will explain to you some day when you are
my wife. I will not remain in this house. I must not remain, but I will
come to you when you are well. You will write me, and I will come. You
want me, don't you, Rita?"
"As I want nothing else in all the world," she whispered, taking his
face between her hands.
"And you still love me?" he asked.
"Ah," was her only reply; but the monosyllable was eloquent.
Dic at once left the house, but Billy Little remained.
"I never in all my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Bays, rising from her chair.
Billy did not comprehend the exact meaning of her mystic words, but in a
general way supposed they referred to her recent experiences as unusual.
"You were mistaken, Mrs. Bays," he said. "Dic could not offer insult to
your daughter. You were mistaken."
"I guess I was," she replied; "I guess I was, but I never, I never in
all my life!"
The old woman was terribly shaken up; but when Billy took his departure,
her faculties returned with more than pristine vigor, and poor, sick
Rita, as usual, fell a victim to her restored powers of invective.
Mrs. Bays shed no tears. The salt in her nature was not held in
solution, but was a rock formation from which tears could not easily be
distilled.
"I have nursed you through sickness," she said, turning upon Rita with
an indignant, injured air. "I have toiled for you, suffered for you,
prayed for you. I have done my duty by you if mother ever did duty by
child, and now I am insulted for your sake; but I bear it all with a
contrite spirit because you are my daughter, though God's just hand is
heavy upon me. There is one burden I will bear no longer. You must give
up that man--that brute, who just insulted me."
"He did not insult you, mother."
"He did, and nothing but God's protecting grace saved me from bodily
harm in my own house while protecting my daughter's honor."
"But, mother," cried Rita, weeping, "you are wrong. If there was any
wrong, it was I who did it."
"You don't know! Oh, that I should live to see what I did see, and
endure what I have endured this day for the sake of an ungrateful
daughter--oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth, as the good book says--to
be insulted--I never! I never!"
Rita, of course, had been weeping during her mother's harangue; but when
the old woman took up her meaningless refrain, "I never! I never!" the
girl's sobs became almost convulsive. Mrs. Bays saw her advantage and
determined not to lose it.
"Promise me," demanded this tender mother, rudely shaking the girl,
"promise me you will never speak to him again."
Rita did not answer--she could not, and the demand was repeated. Still
Rita answered not.
"If you don't promise me, I'll leave your bedside. I'll never speak your
name again."
"Oh, mother," sobbed the girl, "I beg you not to ask that promise of me.
I can't give it. I can't. I can't."
"Give me the promise this instant, or I'll disown you. Do you promise?"
The old woman bent fiercely over her daughter and waited stonily for an
answer. Rita shrank from her, but could not resist the domineering old
creature, so she whispered:--
"Yes, mother, I promise," and the world seemed to be slipping away from
her forever.
THE DIMPLER