THE DIMPLER
Billy Little soon found Dic and greeted him with, "Well, we haven't got
her yet."
"No, but when she recovers, we will have her. What an idiot I was to
allow that old woman to make me angry!"
"You are right for once, Dic," was Billy's consoling reply. "She has
been waiting for an excuse to turn you from her doors, and you furnished
it. I suppose you can never enter the house again."
"I don't want to enter it, unless by force to take Rita. Why didn't I
take her long ago? It serves no purpose to call myself a fool, but--"
"Perhaps it's a satisfaction," interrupted Billy, "a satisfaction to
discover yourself at last. Self-knowledge is the summit of all wisdom."
"Ah, Billy Little, don't torture me; I am suffering enough as it is."
Billy did not answer, but took Dic's hand and held it in his warm clasp
for a little time as they walked in silence along the street.
The two disconsolate lovers who had come a-kidnapping remained over
night in Indianapolis, and after breakfast Billy suggested that they
discuss the situation in detail.
"Have you thought of any plan whereby you may communicate with Rita?" he
asked.
"No," answered Dic.
"Do you know any of her girl friends?"
"The very thing!" exclaimed Dic, joyous as possible under the
circumstances. "I'll see Miss Tousy, and she will help us, I'm sure."
"Is she sentimentally inclined?" queried Billy.
"I don't know."
"Is her face round or oval?"
"Oval," replied Dic, in some perplexity.
"Long oval?"
"Rather."
"Good!" exclaimed Billy. "Does she talk much or little?"
"Little, save at times."
"And her voice?"
"Low and soft."
"Better and better," said Billy. "What does she read?"
"She loves Shakespeare and Shelley."
"Go to her at once," cried Billy, joyfully. "I'll stake my life she'll
help. Show me a long oval face, a soft voice speaking little, and a
lover of poetry, and I'll show you the right sort of heart. But we must
begin at once. Buy a new stock, Dic, and have your shoes polished. Get a
good pair of gloves, and, if you think you can handle it properly, a
stick. Fine feathers go farther in making fine birds than wise men
suppose. Too much wisdom often blinds a man to small truths that are
patent to a fool. I wish you were small enough to wear my coat."
Dic congratulated himself upon his bulk, but he took Billy's advice
regarding the gloves and stock. Billy was a relic of the days of the
grand beaux, when garments, if they did not make the man, at least could
mar the gentleman, and held his faith in the omnipotence of dress, as a
heritage from his youth--that youth which was almost of another world.
Dic was one of the few men whose splendor of person did not require the
adornments of dress. All women looked upon his redolence of life and
strength with pleasure, and soon learned to respect his
straightforward, fearless honesty. Miss Tousy had noted Dic's qualities
on previous occasions, and valued him accordingly. She was also
interested in Rita, who was her protegee; and she was graciousness
itself to Dic that day as she asked him,
"What good fortune brings you?"
"It is bad fortune brings me, I am sorry to say," returned Dic.
"Yesterday was the unluckiest day of my life, and I have come to you for
help."
Miss Tousy's kind heart responded, as Billy Little had predicted.
"Then your ill luck is my good fortune. In what way can I help you? I
give you _carte blanche_; ask what you will."
"I will not hold you to your offer until I tell you what I want. Then
you may refuse if you feel that--"
"I'll not refuse," answered the kindly young lady. "Go on."
"You know that Ri--, Miss Bays, is--has been for a long time--that is,
has promised to be--"
"I know. But what has happened?"
"It's a long story. I'll not tell you all. I--"
"Yes, tell me all--that is, if you wish. I'm eager to hear all, even to
the minutest details. Don't mind if the story is long." And she settled
herself comfortably among the cushions to hear his sentimental
narrative. Dic very willingly told the whole story of yesterday's woes,
and Miss Tousy gave him her sympathy, as only a woman can give. It was
not spoken freely in words, merely in gestures and little ejaculatory
"ah's," "oh's," and "too bad's"; but it was soothing to Dic, and sweet
Miss Tousy gained a lifelong friend.
"You see," said Dic, after he had finished his story, "I cannot
communicate with Rita. She is ill, and I shall be unable to hear from
her."
"I'll keep you informed; indeed I will, gladly. Oh, that hard old woman!
There is no hallucination so dangerous to surrounding happiness as that
of the Pharisee. Mrs. Bays has in some manner convinced herself that her
hardness is goodness, and she actually imposes the conviction upon
others. Her wishes have come to bear the approval of her conscience.
Every day of my life I grow more thankful that I have a sweet, gentle
mother. But Mrs. Bays intends right, and that, perhaps, is a saving
grace."
"I prefer a person who intends wrong and does right to one who intends
right and does wrong," replied Dic. "I know nothing so worthless and
contemptible as mistaken good intentions. But we should not criticise
Rita's mother."
"No," returned Miss Tousy; "and I'll go to see Rita every day--twice a
day--and will write to you fully by every mail."
"I intend to remain at the inn till she recovers. I couldn't wait for
the mail."
"Very well, that is much better. I'll send you word to the inn after
each visit, or, if you wish, you may come to me evenings, and I'll tell
you all about her. Shall I see you to-night, and shall I carry any
message?"
"Tell her I will remain till she is better, and--and then I--I
will--that will be all for the present."
* * * * *
Billy Little was for going home at noon, but Dic begged him to remain.
The day was very long for Dic, notwithstanding Billy's companionship,
and twice during the afternoon he induced his friend to exhibit the
Brummel coat at the street-crossing a short distance south of the house
wherein the girl of girls lay ill and grieving. After much persuasion,
Billy consented to accompany Dic on his visit that evening to Miss
Tousy. The Schwitzer coat was carefully brushed, the pale face was
closely shaved and delicately powdered, and the few remaining hairs were
made to do the duty of many in covering Billy's blushing baldness.
"I wish I had one of my waistcoats here," said our little coxcomb. "I
would button it if I had to go into stays--egad! I would. I will show
you those waistcoats some day,--India silk--corn color, with a touch of
gold braid at the pockets, ivory buttons the size of a sovereign, with
gold centres, made by the artist who made the coat. The coat is all
right. Wouldn't be ashamed to wear it to a presentation. I will button
it over this waistcoat and it will not be noticed. How do you like this
stock--all right?"
"I think it is."
"I have a better one at home. Got it down by the bank. Smith, Dye and
Company, Limited, Haberdashers. I can recommend the place if--if you
ever go to London. Brummel's haberdasher--Brummel knew the best places.
Depend upon him for that. Where he dealt, there you would hear the tramp
of many feet. He made Schwitzer's fortune. Wonderful man, Brummel.
Wonderful man, and I like him if he does owe me a thousand pounds thirty
years past due. Egad! it has been so long since I carried a stick I have
almost lost the knack of the thing. A stick is a useful thing to a
gentleman. Gives him grace, furnishes occupation for his hands. Gloves
in one hand, stick in the other--no man need get his hands mixed. Got
this stick down on Washington Street an hour ago. How do I seem to
handle it?" He walked across the room, holding the stick in the most
approved fashion--of thirty years before.
"It's fine, Billy Little, it's fine," answered Dic, sorry to see an
apparent weakness in his little friend, though loving him better for
the sake of it. The past had doubled back on Billy for a day, and he
felt a touch of his youth--of that olden time when the first dandy of
England was heir-apparent to the crown and blubbered over an ill-fitting
coat. If you will look at the people of those times through the lens of
that fact, you will see something interesting and amusing.
After many glances toward the mirror, Billy announced that he was ready,
and marched upon Miss Tousy, exulting in the fact that there was not in
all the state another coat like the one he wore. Billy's vanity, to do
him justice, was not at all upon his own account. He wished to appear
well for Dic's sake, and ransacked his past life for points in etiquette
and manner once familiar, but now almost forgotten by him and by the
world. His quaint old resurrections were comical and apt to create
mirth, but beneath their oddities I believe a discerning person would
easily have recognized the gentleman.
I shall not describe to you Billy's Regency bow when Dic presented him
to Miss Tousy; nor shall I bring into his conversation all the "My dear
madams," "Dear ladys," and "Beg pardons," scattered broadcast in his
effort to do credit to his protege. But Miss Tousy liked Billy, while
she enjoyed his old-fashioned affectations; and in truth the man was in
all respects worthy of the coat.
"Rita is very ill," Miss Tousy said. "Mrs. Bays says your conduct almost
killed her daughter. Two doctors are with her now."
"Terrible, my dear madam, terrible," interrupted Billy, and Miss Tousy
continued:--
"I whispered to Rita that you would remain, and she murmured, 'I'm so
glad. Tell him mother forced me to promise that I would never see him
again, and that promise is killing me. I can't forget it even for a
moment. Ask him to forgive me, and ask him if it will be wrong for me
to break the promise when I get well. I cannot decide whether it would
be wrong for me to keep it or to break it. Both ways seem wicked to
me!'"
"Wicked!" cried Billy springing from his chair excitedly, and walking
across the room, gloves in one hand, stick in the other, and Brummel
coat buttoned tightly across the questionable waistcoat, "my dear lady,
tell her it will be wicked--damnable--beg pardon, beg pardon; but I must
repeat, dear lady, it will be wicked and wrong--a damning wrong, if she
keeps the promise obtained by force--by force, lady, by duress. Tell her
I absolve her from the promise. I will go to Rome and get the Pope's
absolution. No! that will be worse than none for Rita; she is a Baptist.
Well, well, I'll hunt out the head Baptist,--the high chief of all
Baptists, if there is one,--and will get his absolution. But, my dear
Miss Tousy, she has faith in me. I have never led her wrong in my life,
and she knows it. Tell her I say the promise is not binding, before
either God or man, and you will help her."
"And tell her she will not be able to keep the promise," interrupted
Dic. "I'll make it impossible. When she recovers, I'll kidnap her, if
need be."
"I'll go at once and tell her," returned Miss Tousy. "She is in need of
those messages."
Dic and Billy walked down to Bays's with Miss Tousy, and waited on the
corner till she emerged from the house, when they immediately joined
her.
"I gave her the messages," said Miss Tousy, "and she became quieter at
once. 'Tell him I'll get well now,' she whispered. Then she smiled
faintly, and said, 'Wouldn't it be romantic to be kidnapped?' After that
she was silent; and within five minutes she slept, for the first time
since yesterday."
Rita's illness proved to be typhoid fever, a frightful disease in those
days of bleeding and calomel.
Billy returned home after a few days, but Dic remained to receive his
diurnal report from Miss Tousy.
One evening during the fourth week of Rita's illness Dic received the
joyful tidings that the fever had subsided, and that she would recover.
He spent a great part of the night watching her windows from across the
street, as he had spent many a night before.
On returning to the inn he found a letter from Sukey Yates. He had been
thinking that the fates had put aside their grudge against him, and that
his luck had turned. When he read the letter announcing that the poor
little dimpler was in dire tribulation, and asking him to return to her
at once and save her from disgrace, he still felt that the fates had
changed--but for the worse. He was sure Sukey might, with equal
propriety, make her appeal to several other young men--especially to Tom
Bays; but he was not strong enough in his conviction to relieve himself
of blame, or entirely to throw off a sense of responsibility. In truth,
he had suffered for weeks with an excruciating remorse; and the sin into
which he had been tempted had been resting like lead upon his
conscience. He remembered Billy's warning against Sukey's too seductive
charms; and although he had honestly tried to follow the advice, and had
clearly seen the danger, he had permitted himself to be lured into a
trap by a full set of dimples and a pair of moist, red lips. He was not
so craven as to say, even to himself, that Sukey was to blame; but deep
in his consciousness he knew that he had tried not to sin; and that
Sukey, with her allurements, half childish, half-womanly, and
all-enticing, had tempted him, and he had eaten. The news in her letter
entirely upset him. For a time he could not think coherently. He had
never loved Sukey, even for a moment. He could not help admiring her
physical beauty. She was a perfect specimen of her type, and her too
affectionate heart and joyous, never-to-be-ruffled good humor made her
a delightful companion, well fitted to arouse tenderness. Add virtue and
sound principle to Sukey's other attractions, and she would have made a
wife good enough for a king--too good, far too good. For the lack of
those qualities she was not to blame, since they spring from heredity or
environment. Sukey's parents were good, honest folk, but wholly unfitted
to bring up a daughter. Sukey at fourteen was quite mature, and gave
evidence of beauty so marked as to attract men twice her age, who "kept
company" with her, as the phrase went, sat with her till late in the
night, took her out to social gatherings, and--God help the girl, she
was not to blame. She did only as others did, as her parents permitted;
and her tender little heart, so prone to fondness, proved to be a curse
rather than the blessing it would have been if properly directed and
protected. Mentally, physically, and temperamentally she was very close
to nature, and nature, in the human species, needs curbing.
The question of who should bear the blame did not enter into Dic's
perturbed cogitations. He took it all upon his own broad shoulders, and
did not seek to hide his sin under the cloak of that poor extenuation,
"she did tempt me." If Rita's love should turn to hatred (he thought it
would), he would marry Sukey and bear his burden through life; but if
Rita's love could withstand this shock, Sukey's troubles would go
unrighted by him. Those were the only conclusions he could reach. His
keen remorse was the result of his sin; and while he pitied Sukey, he
did not trust her.
Next morning Dic saw Miss Tousy and took the stage for home. His first
visit was to Billy Little, whom he found distributing letters back of
the post-office boxes.
"How is Rita?" asked Billy.
"She's much better," returned Dic. "Miss Tousy tells me the fever has
left her, and the doctors say she will soon recover. I wanted to see her
before I left, but of course that could not be; and--and the truth is I
could not have looked her in the face."
"Why?" Billy was busy throwing letters.
"Because--because, Billy Little, I am at last convinced that I represent
the most perfect combination of knave and fool that ever threw heaven
away and walked open-eyed into hell."
"Oh, I don't know," replied the postmaster, continuing to toss letters
into their respective boxes. "I ... don't know. The world has seen some
rare (Mrs. Sarah Cummins) combinations of that sort." After a long pause
he continued: "I ... I don't believe (Peter Davidson) I don't
believe ... there is much knave in you. Fool, perhaps (Atkinson, David. He
doesn't live here), in plenty--." Another pause, while three or four
letters were distributed. "Suppose you say that the formula--the
chemical formula--of your composition would stand (Peter Smith) F_{9}
K_{2}. Of course, at times, you are all M, which stands for man, but
(Jane Anderson, Jane Anderson. Jo John's wife, I suppose)--"
"You will not jest, Billy Little, when you have heard all."
"I am not ... jesting now. Go back ... into my apartments. I'll lock the
door (Samuel Richardson. Great writer) and come back to you (Leander
Cross. Couldn't read a signboard. What use writing letters to him?) when
I have handed (Mrs. Margarita Bays. They don't know she has moved to
Indianapolis, damn her)--when I have handed out the mail."
Dic went back to the bedroom, and Billy opened the delivery window. The
little crowd scrambled for their letters as if they feared a delay of a
moment or two would fade the ink, and when the mail had been distributed
the calm postmaster went back to hear Dic's troubles. At no time in
that young man's life had his troubles been so heavy. He feared Billy
Little's scorn and biting sarcasm, though he well knew that in the end
he would receive sympathy and good advice. The relation between Dic and
Billy was not only that of intimate friendship; it was almost like that
between father and son. Billy felt that it was not only his privilege,
but his duty, to be severe with the young man when necessity demanded.
When Dic was a boy he lost his father, and Billy Little had stood as
substitute for, lo, these many years.
When Billy entered the room, Dic was lost amid the flood of innumerable
emotions, chief among which were the fear that he had lost Rita and the
dread of her contempt.
Billy went to the fireplace, poked the fire, lighted his pipe, and
leaned against the mantel-shelf.
"Well, what's the trouble now?" asked Brummel's friend.
"Read this," answered Dic, handing him Sukey's letter.
Billy went to the window, rested his elbows upon the piano, put on his
"other glasses," and read aloud:--
"'DEAR DIC: I'm in so much trouble.'" ("Maxwelton's braes,"
exclaimed Billy. The phrase at such a time was almost an oath.)
"'Please come to me at once.'" (Billy turned his face toward Dic
and gazed at him for thirty long seconds.) "'Come at once. Oh,
please come to me, Dic. I will kill myself if you don't. I cannot
sleep nor eat. I am in such agony I wish I were dead; but I trust
you, and I am sure you will save me. I know you will. If you could
know how wretched and unhappy I am, if you could see me tossing all
night in bed, and crying and praying, you certainly would pity me.
Oh, God, I will go crazy. I know I will. Come to me, Dic, and save
me. I have never said that I loved you--you have never asked
me--but you know it more surely than words can tell.'
"'SUKEY.'"
When Billy had finished reading the letter he spoke two words, as if to
himself,--"Poor Rita." His first thought was of her. Her pain was his
pain; her joy was his joy; her agony was his torture. Then he seated
himself on the stool and gazed across the piano out the window. After a
little time his fingers began to wander over the keys. Soon the
wandering fingers began to strike chords, and the random chords grew
into soft, weird improvisations; then came a few chords from the
beloved, melodious "Messiah"; but as usual "Annie Laurie" soon claimed
her own, and Billy was lost, for the time, to Dic and to the world.
Meanwhile Dic sat by the fireplace awaiting his friend's pleasure, and
to say that he suffered, but poorly tells his condition.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked Billy, suddenly turning
on the stool. Dic did not answer, and Billy continued: "Damned pretty
mess you've made. Proud of yourself, I suppose?"
"No."
"Lady-killer, eh?"
"No."
"Oh, perhaps it wasn't your fault, Adam? You are not to blame? She
tempted you?"
"I only am to blame."
"'Deed if I believe you have brains enough to know who is to blame."
"Yes, I have that much, but no more. Oh, Billy Little, don't--don't."
Billy turned upon the piano-stool, and again began to play.
Dic had known that Billy would be angry, but he was not prepared for
this avalanche of wrath. Billy had grown desperately fond of Rita. No
one could know better than he the utter folly and hopelessness of his
passion; but the realization of folly and a sense of hopelessness do not
shut folly out of the heart. If they did, there would be less suffering
in the world. Billy's love was a strange combination of that which might
be felt by a lover and a father. He had not hoped or desired ever to
possess the girl, and his love for Dic had made it not only easy, but
joyous to surrender her to him. Especially was he happy over the union
because it would insure her happiness. His love was so unselfish that he
was willing to give up not only the girl, but himself, his blood, his
life, for her sweet sake. With all his love for Dic, that young man was
chiefly important as a means to Rita's happiness, and now he had become
worse than useless because he was a source of wretchedness to her. You
may understand, then, the reason for Billy's extreme anger against this
young man, who since childhood had been his friend, almost as dear as if
he were his son.
After rambling over the keys for two or three minutes, he turned
savagely upon Dic, saying:--
"I wish you would tell me why you come to me for advice. You don't take
it."
"Yes, I do, Billy Little. I value your advice above every one else's."
"Stuff and nonsense. I warned you against that girl--the dimpler: much
you heeded me. Do you think I'm a free advice factory? Get out of here,
get out of here, I say, and let me never see your face--"
"Oh, Billy Little, don't, don't," cried Dic. "You can't forsake me after
all these years you have helped me. You can't do it, Billy Little!"
"Get out of here, I say, and don't come back--" ("Ah, Billy Little, I
beg--") "till to-morrow morning. Come to-morrow, and I will try to tell
you what to do." Dic rushed upon the terrible little fellow, clasped
his small form with a pair of great strong arms, and ran from the room.
Billy sat for a moment gazing at the door through which Dic had passed;
then he arranged his stock, and turned to his piano for consolation and
inspiration.
Billy knew that he knew Dic, and believed he knew Sukey. He knew, among
other facts concerning Dic, that he was not a libertine; that he was
pure in mind and purpose; that he loved and revered Rita Bays; and that
he did not care a pin for Sukey's manifold charms of flesh and blood. He
believed that Sukey was infatuated with Dic, and that her fondness grew
partly out of the fact that he did not fall before her smiles. He also
believed that her regard for Dic did not preclude, in her comprehensive
little heart, great tenderness for other men. Sukey had, upon one
occasion, been engaged to marry three separate and distinct swains of
the neighborhood, and a triangular fight among the three suitors had
aroused in the breast of her girl friends a feeling of envy that was
delicious to the dimpling little _casus belli_. After Dic's departure,
Billy sat throughout most of the night gazing into the fire, smoking his
pipe, and turning the situation over in his mind. When Dic arrived next
morning he was seated on the counter ready with his advice. The young
man took a seat beside him.
"Now tell me all about it," said Billy. "I think I know, but tell me the
exact truth. Don't spare the dimpler, and don't spare yourself."
Thereupon Dic unfolded his story with a naked truthfulness that made him
blush.
"I thought as much," remarked Billy, when the story was finished. "Miss
Potiphar from Egypt has brought you and herself into trouble."
"No, no, Billy Little, you are wrong. I cannot escape blame by placing
the fault upon her. I should despise myself if I did; but I would be a
blind fool not to see that--that--oh, I cannot explain. You know there
are Jap Bertram, Dick Olders, Tom Printz, and, above all, Tom Bays, who
are her close friends and constant visitors and--and, you know--you
understand my doubts. I do not trust her. I may be wrong, but I suppose
I should wish to err on the right side. It is better that I should err
in trusting her than to be unjust in doubting her. The first question
is: Shall I marry Sukey if Rita will forgive me? The second, Shall I
marry her if Rita refuses to forgive me? Am I bound by honor and duty to
sacrifice my happiness for the sake of the girl whom I do not, but
perhaps should, trust?"
"I don't see that your happiness has anything to do with the case,"
returned Billy. "If that alone were to be considered, I should say marry
Sukey regardless of your doubts. You deserve the penalty; but Rita has
done no sin, and you have no right to punish her to pay your debts. You
are bound by every tie of honor to marry her, and you shall do so. The
dimpler is trying to take you from Rita, and if you are not careful your
fool conscience will help her to do it."
"If Rita will forgive me," said Dic.
"She'll forgive you sooner or later," answered Billy. "Her love and
forgiveness are benedictions she cannot withhold nor you escape."
I doubt if Billy Little would have been so eager in forwarding this
marriage had not Williams been frowning in the background. Billy, as you
know, had a heart of his own--a bachelor heart; but he hated Williams,
and was intensely jealous of him. So, taking the situation at its worst,
Dic was the lesser of two evils. But, as I have already told you many
times, he passionately loved Dic for his own sake, and his unselfish
regard for the priceless girl made the young man doubly valuable as a
means to her happiness. If Rita wanted a lover, she must have him. If
she wanted the moon, she ought to have it--should have it, if Billy
Little could get it for her. So felt Billy, whose advice brought joy to
Dic. It also brought to him the necessity of a painful interview with
Sukey. He dreaded the interview, and told Billy he thought he would
write to Sukey instead.
"You can pay at least a small part of the penalty you owe by seeing the
girl and bearing the pain of an interview," replied Billy. "But if you
are too cowardly to visit her, write. I suppose that's what I should do
if I were in your place. But I'd be a poor example for a manly man to
follow."
"I'll see her," replied Dic. "Poor Sukey! I pity her."
"It isn't safe to pity a girl like Sukey. Pity has a dangerous kinsman,"
observed Billy.
* * * * *
On his way home, Dic called upon Sukey, and, finding her out, left word
he would return that evening. When she received the message her heart
throbbed with hope, and the dimples twinkled joyously for the first time
in many days. She used all the simple arts at her command to adorn
herself for his reception, and toiled to assist the dimples in the great
part they would soon be called upon to play in the drama of her life.
She knew that Dic did not trust her, and from that knowledge grew her
own doubts as to the course he would take. Hope and fear warmed and
chilled her heart by turns; but her efforts to display her charms were
truly successful; and faith, born of man's admiration, led her to
believe she would that night win the greatest prize the world had to
offer, and would save herself from ruin and disgrace.
Soon after supper the family were relegated to the kitchen, and Sukey,
with palpitating heart, waited in the front room for Dic.
Among our simple rural folk a decollete gown was considered immodest. In
order to be correct the collar must cover the throat, as nearly to the
chin and ears as possible. Sukey's dresses were built upon this plan,
much to her regret; for her throat and bosom were as white and
plump--but never mind the description. They suited Sukey, and so far as
I have ever heard they were entirely satisfactory to those so fortunate
as to behold them. Therefore, when she was alone, knowing well the
inutility of the blushing rose unseen, she opened the dress collar and
tucked it under at each side, displaying her rounded white throat, with
its palpitating little spot--almost another dimple--where it merged into
the bosom. There was no immodest exposure, but when Mrs. Yates returned
to the room for her glasses, the collar was quickly readjusted and
remained in place till Dic's step was heard. Now, ready, and all
together: dimples, lips, teeth, eyes, and throat, do your duty! So much
depended upon Dic that she wanted to fall upon her knees when he
entered. It grieves me to write thus of our poor, simple little girl,
whose faults were thrust upon her, and I wish I might have told this
story with reference only to her dimples and her sweetness; but Dic
shall not be hopelessly condemned for his sin, if I can prevent it, save
by those who are entitled to cast stones, and to prevent such
condemnation I must tell you the truth about Sukey. The fact that he
would not claim the extenuation of temptation is at least some reason
why he should have it.
I shall not tell you the details of this interview. Soon after Dic's
arrival our little Hebe was in tears, and he, moved by her suffering,
could not bring himself to tell her his determination. Truly, Billy was
right. It was dangerous to pity such a girl. Dic neither consented nor
refused to marry her, but weakly evaded the subject, and gave her the
impression that he would comply with her wishes. He did not intend to
create that impression; but in her ardent desire she construed his
silence to suit herself, and, becoming radiant with joy, was prettier
and more enticing than she had ever before appeared. Therefore, as every
man will agree, Dic's task became difficult in proportion, and painful
beyond his most gloomy anticipations. His weakness grew out of a great
virtue--the wholesome dread of inflicting pain.
During the evening Sukey offered Dic a cup of cider, and her heart beat
violently while he drank.
"It has a peculiar taste," he remarked.
"There are crab apples in it," the girl answered.
There was something more than crab apples in the cider; there was a love
powder, and two hours after Dic's arrival at home he became ill. Dr.
Kennedy ascribed the illness to poisoning, and for a time it looked as
if Sukey's love powder would solve several problems; but Dic recovered,
and the problems were still unsolved.
From the day Dic received Sukey's unwelcome letter, he knew it was his
duty to inform Rita of his trouble. He was sure she would soon learn the
interesting truth from disinterested friends, should the secret become
public property on Blue, and he wanted at least the benefit of an honest
confession. That selfishness, however, was but a small part of his
motive. He sincerely felt that it was Rita's privilege to know all about
the affair, and his duty to tell her. He had no desire to conceal his
sin; he would not take her love under a false pretence. He almost felt
that confession would purge him of his sin, and looked forward with a
certain pleasure to the pain he would inflict upon himself in telling
her. In his desire for self-castigation he lost sight of the pain he
would inflict upon her. He knew she would be pained by the disclosure,
but he feared more its probable effect upon her love for him, and looked
for indignant contempt and scorn from her, rather than for the
manifestation of great pain. He resolved to write to Rita at once and
make a clean breast of it; but Billy advised him to wait till she was
entirely well.
Dic, quite willing to postpone his confession, wrote several letters,
which kind Miss Tousy delivered; but he did not speak of Sukey Yates
until Rita's letters informed him that she was growing strong. Then he
wrote to her and told her in as few words as possible the miserable
story of his infidelity. He did not blame Sukey, nor excuse himself. He
simply stated the fact and said: "I hardly dare hope for your
forgiveness. It seems that you must despise me as I despise myself. It
is needless for me to tell you of my love for you, which has not wavered
during so many years that I have lost their count. But now that I
deserve your scorn; now that I am in dread of losing you who have so
long been more than all else to me, you are dearer than ever before.
Write to me, I beg, and tell me that you do not despise me. Ah, Rita,
compared to you, there is no beauty, no purity, no tenderness in the
world. There seems to be but one woman--you, and I have thrown away your
love as if I were a blind fool who did not know its value. Write to me,
I beg, and tell me that I am forgiven."
But she did not write to him. In place of a letter he received a small
package containing the ivory box and the unfortunate band of gold that
had brought trouble to Billy Little long years before.
WISE MISS TOUSY