THE CHRISTMAS GIFT
Dic started home with his heart full of unalloyed happiness; but at the
end of four hours, when he was stabling his horse, the old pain for the
sake of another's sorrow asserted itself, and his happiness seemed to be
a sin. Rita's tender heart also underwent a change while she lay that
night wakeful with joy and gazing into the darkness.
Amid all her joy came the ever recurring vision of Sukey's wretchedness.
While under the convincing influence of her own arguments and Dic's
resistless presence, she had seen but one side of the question,--her
own; but darkness is a great help to the inner sight, and now the other
side of the case had its hearing. She remembered Sukey's letter to Tom,
but she knew the unfortunate girl loved Dic. Was it right, she asked
herself over and over again, was it right that she should be happy at
the cost of another's woe? Then came again the flood of her great
longing--the longing of her whole life--and she tried to tell herself
she did not care who suffered, she intended to be happy. That was the
way of the world, and it should be her way. But Rita's heart was a poor
place for such thoughts to thrive, and when she arose next morning,
after a sleepless night of mingled joy and sorrow, she was almost as
unhappy as she had been the previous morning. She spent several days and
nights alternating between two opinions; but finally, after repeated
conversations with Miss Tousy, whose opinions you already know, and
after meditating upon Sukey's endeavor to entrap two men, she arrived at
two opposing conclusions. First, it was her duty to give Dic up; and
second, she would do nothing of the sort. That was the first, and I
believe the only selfish resolve that ever established itself in the
girl's heart with her full knowledge and consent. But the motive behind
it was overpowering. She shut her lips and said she "didn't care," and
once having definitely settled the question, she dismissed it, feeling
that she was very sinful, but also very happy.
Dic, of course, soon sought Billy Little, the ever ready receptacle of
his joys and sorrows.
No man loved the words, "I told you so," more dearly than Little, and
when Dic entered the store he was greeted with that irritating sentence
before he had spoken a word.
"You told me what?" asked Dic, pretending not to understand.
"Come, come," returned Billy, joyously, "I see it in your face. You know
what I mean. Don't try to appear more thick-headed than you are. Oh,
perhaps you are troubled with false modesty, and wish to hide the light
of a keen perception. Let it shine, Dic, let it shine. Hide it not.
Avoid the bushel."
Dic laughed and said: "Well, you were right; she did forgive me. Now
please don't continue to point out your superior wisdom. I see it
without your help. Get thee a bushel, Billy Little, lest you shine too
brightly."
"No insolence, young man, no insolence," retorted Billy, with a face
grave and serious, save for a joyful smile in his eyes.
"Close the store door, Billy Little," said Dic, after a few minutes of
conversation, "and come back to the room. I want to talk to you."
"The conceit of some people!" replied the happy merchant. "So you would
have me close my emporium for the sake of your small affairs?"
"Yes," responded Dic.
"Well, nothing wins like self-conceit," answered Billy. "Here's the key.
Lock the front door, and I'll be with you when I fold this bolt of India
silk."
Dic locked the door, Billy finished folding the India silk--a bolt of
two-bit muslin,--and the friends went into the back room.
How sweet it is to prepare one's self deliberately for good news! Billy,
in a glow of joy, lighted his pipe, moved his chair close to the
fireplace, for the day was cold, and gave the word of command--"Go
ahead!"
Dic told him all that had happened in Miss Tousy's parlor, omitting, of
course, to mention the blank hour, and added: "I had a letter from Rita
this morning, and she feels as I do, that we are very cruel; but she
says she would rather be selfish and happy than unselfish and miserable,
which, as you know, is not at all true. She couldn't be selfish if she
were to try."
"Good little brain in that little head," exclaimed Billy. "There never
was a better. But, as you say, she's wrong in charging herself with
selfishness. I believe she has more common sense, more virtue, more
tenderness, gentleness, beauty, and unselfishness than any other girl in
the world."
Dic laughed, very much pleased with his friend's comments upon Rita. "I
believe you are in love with her yourself."
The shaft unintentionally struck centre and Billy's scalp blushed as he
haltingly remarked, "Well, I suppose you're right." Then after a long
pause--"Maxwelton's braes, um, um, um." Another long pause ensued,
during which Billy knocked the ashes from his pipe against the wall of
the fireplace, poked the back-log, and threw on two or three large
pieces of wood.
"I don't mind telling you," he said, chuckling with laughter, "that I
was almost in love with her at one time. She was so perfect--had the
same name, face, and disposition of--of another that--Jove! I was
terribly jealous of you."
"Nonsense," answered Dic, with a great pleased laugh.
"Of course it was nonsense. I knew it then and know it now; but when,
let me ask you, had nonsense or any other kind of sense anything to do
with a man falling in love?"
"I think it the most sensible thing a man can do," answered Dic, out of
the fulness of his cup of youth.
"Has it made you happy?"
"Yes, and no."
"But mostly no?" responded the cynic.
"Yes, Billy Little, so far it's been mostly no; but the time will come
when I will be very happy because of it."
"Not if you can help it. We will see how it turns out in the end."
"Billy Little, you are the greatest croaker I ever knew," observed Dic,
testily.
"It is better to croak early than to sing too soon. But what do you
want?"
"I want to know again what I shall do about Sukey since this new change
in Rita. When I thought Rita was lost to me, I fear I permitted Sukey to
believe I would, you know, comply with her wishes; but now I can't, and
I don't know how to tell her about it. I said nothing, but my silence
almost committed me."
After a moment spent in thought, Billy answered: "Frederick the Great
used to say, 'In default of unanswerable arguments it is better to
express one's self laconically and not go beating about the bush.' Go
tell her."
"That's easier to advise than to do," retorted Dic. "She will cry,
and--"
"Yes, I know; if it were as easy to do as it is to advise, this would be
a busy world. She will cry, and a woman's tears hurt the right sort of
man. But bless my soul, Dic, why don't you settle your own affairs? I'm
tired of it all. It's getting to trouble me as much as it troubles you."
Billy paused, gazing into the fire, and dropped into a half-revery. "I
can see the poor little dimpler weeping and grieving. I can hear her
sobs and feel her heartaches. She is not good; but the fault is not
hers, and I wish I might bear her pain and suffer in her stead. I
believe it hurts me more to see others suffer than to suffer myself. I
wish I might bear every one's suffering and die on a modern Calvary.
What a glorious thought that is, Dic--the Master's vicarious atonement!
Even if the story be nothing but a fable, as some men claim, the thought
is a glorious one, and the fate--ah, the fate--but such a fate is only
for God. If I can't help the suffering of the world, I wish I might live
in the midst of Sahara, where I could not hear of human pain. It hurts
me, Dic. Indeed it does. And this poor little dimpler--I'm sorry, I'm
sorry."
"Ah, Billy Little, think of my sorrow," said Dic.
"It's a question whether we should shrink from our troubles or face
them," continued Little; "but in your case I should choose the
shrinking, and write to the poor, pathetic little dimpler. Poor thing!
Her days of dimpling are over. If you knew that you had led her astray,
your duty, I believe, would be clear; but there is the 'if' that gives
us serious pause and makes cowards of us both. Write to her, Dic. You
are too great a coward to face her, and I'm not brave enough even to
advise it."
Dic wrote to Sukey, and avoided the pain of facing her, but not the pain
of knowing that she suffered. His letter brought an answer from Sukey
that was harder to bear than reproaches.
Within two or three days Sukey wrote to Rita, whom she knew to be the
cause of Dic's desertion. The letter to Rita, like the one to Dic,
contained no word of reproach. "I do not blame you for keeping him," she
said in closing. "He has always belonged to you. I hope you will be
happy and not trouble yourselves about me. No one knows about this
terrible affair, Rita, but you and Dic, and I hope you will tell nobody.
Especially, please, please, don't tell Tom. This is the only request I
make: don't let Tom know anything about it. I want to confess, Rita,
that I have been very wicked, and that Dic is not to blame. I feel it my
duty to tell you this, so that you may not blame him. I have brought
trouble to you both, and it is as little as I should do to tell you the
truth. The fault was mine. I gave him a love powder. But I loved him."
Sukey's letter came one morning four or five days before Christmas. Rita
wept all day over it, and at night it helped her in taking a step that
settled all the momentous questions touching Dic and herself.
On the same fateful day Mr. Bays and Tom came home together in the
middle of the afternoon. That unwonted event was, in itself, alarming.
Rita was reading near the window, and her mother was knitting before the
fire. When our Toms, father and son, entered the room, trouble was
plainly visible upon their faces. Tom senior threw his cap and great fur
coat on the bed, while De Triflin' leaned against the mantel-shelf.
Drawing a chair to the fire, Tom the elder said:--
"Well, Margarita, I guess we're ruined--Jim and me and Tom--all of us. I
see no earthly way out of it."
"What's the matter?" asked Madam Jeffreys, folding her knitting and
placing it in her lap with great deliberation. Rita dropped her book,
and went over to her father.
"Williams, I suppose?" queried Madam Jeffreys.
"Yes; he has had orders from home to collect the money we owe the house,
or else to take the store, the farm, our household furniture,
everything, at once. Williams leaves for home Christmas Day, and
everything must be settled before then. He gives us till to-morrow noon
to raise the money. But that is not the worst," continued Mr. Bays,
nervously, rising and turning his back to the fire, "Tom has--has
overdrawn his account more than a thousand dollars in Williams's office.
Williams don't call it 'overdrawn.' He calls it embezzlement, theft. Tom
and me went to Judge Blackford and told him just how the money was
taken. The Judge says Williams is right about it; it is embezzlement,
and Williams says the firm insists on prosecuting Tom and sending him to
the penitentiary if the money is not replaced. God only knows what we
are to do, Margarita. The farm is mortgaged for its full value, and so
far as I can see we are ruined, ruined." Tears began to flow over his
cheeks, and Rita, drawing his face down to hers, stood on tiptoe and
tried to kiss the tears away.
"Let me go to see Billy Little," she said in desperation. "He will lend
us the money; I know he will."
"Like h--he will," cried gentle Tom. "Dic asked him to loan me enough
money to pay my overdraft--said he would go on the note--but he refused
point blank; said the twenty-three hundred dollars he loaned father and
Uncle Jim Fisher was all the money he had. The miserly old curmudgeon!"
Mrs. Bays went weeping to Tom's side. "Poor Tom, my dear, dear son," she
whimpered, trying to embrace him.
Dear son roughly repulsed her, saying: "There's no need to go outside of
our family for help. If Rita wasn't the most selfish, ungrateful fool
alive, she'd settle all our troubles by one word."
"Would you have me sell myself, Tom?" asked the ungrateful sister.
"Of course I would!! sell yourself!! rot!! You'd be getting a mighty
good price. There's lots better-looking girls 'en you would jump at the
chance. Sell yourself? Ain't Williams a fine gentleman? Where's another
like him? Ain't he rich? Ain't he everything a girl could want in a
man--everything but a green country clodhopper?"
"All that may be true, Tom, but I can't marry him. I can't," returned
Rita, weeping and sobbing in her father's arms.
"Can't you, Rita?" asked Mr. Bays. "All that Tom says about him is true,
every word. Williams is good enough for any girl in the world but you.
No man is that. You would soon forget Dic."
"No, no, father, never, never, in all my life."
"And you would soon learn to like Williams," continued the distracted
father. "Please, Rita, try to do this and save me and Tom."
"She shall do it," cried Madam Jeffreys, taking courage from the
knowledge that at last her husband was her ally. She went to Rita and
pulled her from her father's arms. "She shall do it or go into the
street this very night, never to enter my house again. I'll never speak
to her again if she don't. It will pain me to treat my own flesh and
blood so harshly, but it is my duty--my duty. I have toiled and suffered
and endured for her sake all my life, and it will almost kill me to turn
against her now; but if she don't save her father and brother, I surely
will. God tells me it is my duty. I do not care for myself. I have eaten
husks all my life, ever since I got married, and I can die eating them;
but for the sake of my dear husband and my dear son who bears his own
father's name, it is my duty, God tells me it is my duty to spurn her.
It is but duty and justice; and justice to all is my motto. It was my
father's motto." She was a wordy orator, but her vocabulary was
limited; and after several repetitions of the foregoing sentiments, she
turned from oratory to anatomy. "Oh, my heart," she cried, placing her
hand upon her breast, "I believe I am about to die."
She sank gasping into the chair, from which she had risen to hurl her
Philippic at Rita's head, and by sheer force of her indomitable will
caused a most alarming pallor to overspread her face. Rita ran for the
camphor, Mr. Bays fetched the whiskey, and under these restoratives
Madam Jeffreys so far recovered that her husband and son were able to
remove her from the chair to the bed. Rita, in tribulation and tears,
sat upon the bedside, chafing her mother's hands and doing all in her
power to relieve the sufferer.
"Don't touch me, ungrateful child," cried Mrs. Margarita, "don't touch
me! If you won't save your father and brother from ruin when you can,
you are not fit to touch your mother. I am dying now," she continued,
gasping for breath. "Because of your cruelty and ingratitude, the blow
has been more than God, in His infinite mercy, has given me strength to
endure. When I am gone, you will remember about this. I forgive you; I
forgive you." Sigh followed sigh, and Rita feared she had killed her
parent.
"Oh, mother," she sobbed, "I will do what you wish. Ah, no, I can't. I
can't do it. Don't ask me."
"Beg her, father, beg her," whispered Mrs. Bays to her spouse when she
saw that Rita was wavering. Bays hesitated; but a look from the bed
brought him to a proper condition of obedience:--
"Rita, won't you save your father and brother?" he asked, taking his
daughter's hands in his own. "We are all ruined and disgraced and lost
forever if you do not. Rita, I beg you to do this for my sake."
The father's appeal she could not withstand. She covered her face with
her hands; then, suddenly drawing herself upright and drying her tears,
she said in a low voice, "I will."
Those two little words changed the world for father and son from
darkness to light. They seemed also to possess wonderful curative powers
for heart trouble, for within three minutes they snatched my Lady
Jeffreys from the jaws of death and placed her upright in the bed.
Within another minute she was on her feet, well and hearty as ever,
busily engaged evolving a plan for immediate action.
"Write to Williams at once," she said to Rita, "asking him to call this
evening. Tell him you want to talk to him about your father's affairs."
Rita again hesitated, but she had given her word, and accordingly
wrote:--
"MR. WILLIAMS: If not otherwise engaged, will you please call this
evening. I am in great trouble about my father and Tom, and wish to
talk to you concerning their affairs.
"RITA."
Tom delivered the note, which threw Williams into a state of ecstasy
bordering on intoxication.
I beg you to pause and consider this girl's piteous condition. Never in
all the eighteen years of her life had she unnecessarily given pain to a
human heart. A tender, gentle strength, love for all who were near her,
fidelity to truth, and purity without the blemish of even an impure
thought, had gone to make up the sum of her existence. As a reward for
all these virtues she was now called upon to bear the burden of an
unspeakable anguish. What keener joy could she know than that which had
come to her through her love for Dic? What agony more poignant could she
suffer than the loss of him? But, putting Dic aside, what calamity
could so blacken the future for her, or for any pure girl, as marriage
with a man she loathed? We often speak of these tragedies regretfully
and carelessly; but imagine yourself in her position, and you will pity
this poor girl of mine, who was about to be sold to the man whom she
despised--and who, worst of all, loved her. Madame Pompadour says in her
memoirs, "I was married to one whom I did not love, and a misfortune
still greater was that he loved me." That condition must be the acme of
a woman's suffering.
Williams knocked at Rita's door early in the evening, and was admitted
to the front parlor by the girl herself. She took a chair and asked him
to be seated. Then a long, awkward silence ensued, which was broken by
Williams:--
"You said you wished to see me. Is there any way in which I can serve
you?"
"Yes," she murmured, speaking with difficulty. "My father and Tom are in
trouble, and I wanted to ask you if anything could be done to--to--" she
ceased speaking, and in a moment Williams said:--
"I have held the house off for four or five months, and I cannot induce
them to wait longer. Their letters are imperative. I wish I had brought
them."
"Then nothing can save them?" asked Rita. The words almost choked her,
because she knew the response they would elicit. She was asking him to
ask her to marry him.
"Rita, there is one thing might save them," replied Roger of the craven
heart. "You know what that is. I have spoken of it so often I am almost
ashamed to speak again." Well he might be.
"Well, what is it? Go on," said Rita, without a sign of faltering. She
wanted to end the agony as soon as possible.
"If you will marry me, Rita--you know how dearly I love you; I need not
tell you of that. Were you not so sure of my love, I might stand better
with you. You see, if you will marry me my father could not, in decency,
prosecute Tom or ruin your father. He would be compelled to protect them
both, being in the family, you know."
"If you will release Tom and save my father from ruin I will ... will
do ... as ... you ... wish," answered the girl. Cold and clear were the
words which closed this bargain, and cold as ice was the heart that sold
itself.
Williams stepped quickly to her side, exclaiming delightedly, "Rita,
Rita, is it really true at last?"
He attempted to kiss her, but she held up her hand warningly.
"No," she said, "not till I am your wife. Then I must submit. Till then
I belong to myself."
"I have waited a long time," answered this patient suitor, "and I can
wait a little longer. When shall we be married?"
"Fix the time yourself," she replied.
"I am to leave Christmas morning by the Napoleon stage for home, and if
you wish we may be married Christmas Eve. That will give you four days
for preparation."
"As you wish," was the response.
"I know, Rita, you do not love me," said Williams, tenderly.
"You surely do," she interrupted.
"But I also know," he continued, "that I can win your love when you are
my wife. I know it, or I would not ask you to marry me. I would not
accept your hand if I were not sure that I would soon possess your
heart. I will be so loving and tender and your life will be so
perfect--so different from anything you have ever known--that you will
soon be glad you gave yourself to me. It will not be long, Rita, not
long."
"Perhaps you are right," she answered with her lips; but in her heart
this girl, who was all tenderness and love, prayed God to strike him
dead before Christmas Eve should come.
Williams again took his chair, but Rita said, "I have given you my
promise. I--I am--I fear I am ill. Please excuse me for the rest of the
evening and--and leave me, I beg you."
Williams took his leave, and Rita went into the sitting room, where
father, mother, and Tom were waiting for the verdict.
"You are saved," said Rita, as if she were announcing dinner.
"My daughter! my own dear child! God will bless you!" exclaimed the
tender mother, hurrying to embrace the cause of her joy.
"Don't touch me!" said Rita. "I--I--God help me! I--I fear--I--hate
you." She turned to the stairway and went to her own room. For hours she
sat by the window, gazing into the street, but toward morning she
lighted a candle and told Dic the whole piteous story in a dozen pages
of anguish and love.
* * * * *
After receiving Sukey's letter, Dic left home for a few days to engage
horses to take east with him in the spring. He did not return until late
in the afternoon of the day before Christmas.
On the morning of that day--the day before Christmas--Jasper Yates,
Sukey's father, came to Billy Little's store in great agitation. Tom
Bays had been there the day before and had imparted to Billy the news of
Rita's forthcoming wedding. She had supposed that Dic would tell him and
had not written; but Dic was away from home and had not received her
letter.
I cannot describe to you the overpowering grief this announcement
brought to the tender bachelor heart. It stunned him, crushed him,
almost killed him; but he tried to bear up manfully under the weight of
his grief. He tried, ah, so hard, not to show his suffering, and
Maxwelton's braes, was sung all day and was played nearly all night; but
the time had come to Billy when even music could not soothe him. There
was a dry, hard anguish at his heart that all the music of heaven or of
earth could not soften. Late in the night he shut his piano in disgust
and sat before the fire during the long black hours without even the
comfort of a tear.
When Tom imparted the intelligence of Rita's wedding, he also asked
Billy for a loan of four hundred dollars. As an inducement, he explained
that he had forged the name of Mr. Wallace to a note calling for that
sum, and had negotiated the note at an Indianapolis bank. Rita's
marriage would settle the Williams theft, but the matter of the forgery
called for immediate adjustment in cash. Billy refused the loan; but he
gave Tom fifty dollars and advised him to leave the state.
"If you don't go," said Billy, savagely, "you will be sent to the
penitentiary. Rita can't marry every one you have stolen from. What did
you do with the money you stole from me--Dic's money? Tell me, or I'll
call an officer at once. I'll arrest you myself and commit you. I'm a
justice of the peace. Now confess, you miserable thief."
Tom turned pale, and, seeing that Billy was in dreadful earnest, began
to cry: "There was five of us in that job," he whispered, "and, Mr.
Little, I never got none of the money. Con Gagen and Mike Doles got it
all. I give them the sacks to keep for a while after I left the store.
They promised to divide, but they run away soon afterwards, and of
course we others were afeared to peach. I didn't know you knowed it. Con
Gagen put me up to it."
"Well, I do know it. I recognized you when you climbed out the window,
and did not shoot you because you were Rita's brother. I said nothing
of the robbery for the same reason, but I made a mistake. Leave my
store. Get out of the state at once. If you are here Christmas Day, I'll
send you where you belong."
Tom took the fifty dollars and the advice; and the next day--the day
before Christmas, the day set for Rita's wedding--Sukey's father entered
Billy's store, as I have already told you, in great agitation.
After Yates had talked to Billy for three or four minutes, the latter
hurriedly closed the store door, donned the Brummel coat, and went
across the road to the inn where the Indianapolis coach was waiting, and
took his place.
At six o'clock that evening Dic arrived at Billy Little's store from his
southern expedition. Finding the store door locked, he got the key from
the landlord of the inn, in whose charge Billy had left it, went to the
post-office, and rejoiced to find a letter from Rita. He eagerly opened
it--and rode home more dead than alive. Rita's wedding would take place
that night at eight o'clock. The thing was hopeless. He showed the
letter to his mother, and asked that he might be left alone with his
sorrow. Mrs. Bright kissed him and retired to her bed in the adjoining
room, leaving Dic sitting upon the hearth log beside the fire.
Dic did not blame Rita. He loved her more dearly than ever before, if
that were possible, because she was capable of making the awful
sacrifice. He well knew what she would suffer. The thought of her
anguish drowned the pain he felt on his own account, and his suffering
for her sake seemed more than he could bear. Billy Little, he supposed,
had gone to the wedding, and for the first time in Dic's life he was
angry with that steadfast friend. Dic knew that the sudden plunge from
joy to anguish had brought a benumbing shock, and while he sat beside
the fire he realized that his suffering had only begun--that his real
anguish would come with the keener consciousness of reaction.
At four o'clock that same afternoon Billy was seated in Rita's parlor,
whispering to her. "My dear girl, I bring you good news. You can't save
Tom. He forged Wallace's name to a note for four hundred dollars, and
passed it at the bank six weeks ago. He wanted to borrow the money from
me to pay the note, but I did not have it. I gave him fifty dollars, and
he has run away--left the state for no one knows where. He carried off
two of Yates's horses, and, best of all, he carried off Sukey. All
reasons for sacrificing yourself to this man Williams are now removed,
save only your father's debt. That, Fisher tells me, has been renewed
for sixty days, and at the end of that time your father and Fisher will
again have it to face. You could not save them, Rita, if you were to
marry half the men in Boston. Even if this debt were paid--cancelled
--instead of renewed, your father would soon be as badly
off as ever. A bank couldn't keep him in business, Rita. Every one he
deals with robs and cheats him. He's a good man, Rita, kind, honest, and
hard working, but he is fit only to farm. I hate to say it, but in many
respects your father is a great fool, very much like Tom. It is easier
to save ten knaves than one fool. A leopard is a leopard; a nigger is a
nigger. God can change the spots of the one and the color of the other,
but I'm blessed if I believe even God can unmake a fool. Now my dear
girl, don't throw away your happiness for life in a hopeless effort to
save your father from financial ruin."
"But I have given my word, Billy Little," replied the girl, to whom a
promise was a sacred thing. "I believe my father and mother would die if
I were to withdraw. I must go on, I must; it is my doom. It is only
three hours--oh, my God! have mercy on me--" and she broke down,
weeping piteously. Soon she continued: "The guests are all invited, and
oh, I can't escape, I can't! I have given my word; I am lost. Thank you,
dear friend, thank you, for your effort to help me; but it is too late,
too late!"
"No, it is not too late," continued Billy; "but in three hours it will
be too late, and you will curse yourself because you did not listen to
me."
"I know I shall; I know it only too well," replied the weeping girl. "I
will not ask you to remain for the--the tragedy."
"I would not witness it," cried Billy, "for all the gold in the world!
When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I've said. Do not wait until it is
too late, but come with me; come now with me, Rita, and let the
consequences be what they will. They cannot be so evil as those which
will follow your marriage. You do not know. You do not understand. Come
with me, girl, come with me. Do not hesitate. When I have left you, it
will be too late, too late. God only can help you; and if you walk
open-eyed into this trouble, He will _not_ help you. He helps those who
help themselves."
"No, Billy Little, no; I cannot go with you. I have given my word. I
have cast the die."
With these words Billy arose, took up his hat, stick, and gloves, went
out into the hall, and opened the front door to go.
"When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I have said and what I'm about to
say, and even though the minister be standing before you, until you have
spoken the fatal words, it will not be too late. You are an innocent
girl, ignorant of many things in life. Still, every girl, if she but
stops to think, has innate knowledge of much that she is supposed not to
know. When I'm gone, Rita, _think_, girl, _think_, think of this night;
this night after the ceremony, when all the guests have gone and you
are alone with him. Kill yourself, Rita, if you will, if there is no
other way out of it--kill yourself, but don't marry that man. For the
sake of God's love, don't marry him. Death will be sweet compared to
that which you will suffer if you do. Good-by, Rita. Think of this
night, girl; think of this night."
"Good-by, Billy Little, good-by," cried the girl, while tears streamed
over her cheeks. As she closed the door behind him she covered her face
with her hands and moaned: "I cannot marry him. How can I kill myself?
How can I escape?"
Meanwhile Madam Jeffreys had donned her black silk dress, made expressly
for the occasion, and was a very busy, happy woman indeed. She did not
know that Tom had run away, but was expecting him home from Blue by the
late stage, which would arrive about seven o'clock.
Billy left for home on the five o'clock stage, but before he left he had
a talk with Rita's father.
Soon after Billy's departure, Miss Tousy and a few young lady friends
came to assist at the bride's toilet. It was a doleful party of
bridesmaids in Rita's room, you may be sure; but by seven o'clock she
was dressed. When the task was finished, she said to her friends:--
"I am very tired. I have an hour before the ceremony, and I should like
to sit alone by the window in the dark to rest and think. Please leave
me to myself. I will lock the door, and, Miss Tousy, please allow no one
to disturb me."
"No one shall disturb you, my dear," answered Miss Tousy, weeping as she
kissed her. Then the young ladies left the room, and Rita locked the
door.
Ten minutes later Mr. Bays entered from Tom's room, which was
immediately back of Rita's. A stairway descended from Tom's room to the
back yard.
[Illustration: "'HERE,' REPLIED THE GIRL."]
Mr. Bays kissed Rita, and hastily whispered: "My great-coat, cap, and
gloves are on Tom's bed. Buck is saddled in the stable. Don't ever let
your mother know I did this. Good-by. I would rather die than see you
marry this man and lose Dic. Don't let your mother know," and he hurried
from the room.
Rita went hurriedly into Tom's room and put on the great-coat, made of
coonskins, a pair of squirrel-skin gloves, and a heavy beaver cap with
curtains that fell almost to her shoulders. She also drew over her shoes
a pair of heavy woollen stockings; and thus arrayed, she ran down the
stairway to the back yard. Flurrying to the stable, she led out "Old
Buck," Mr. Bays's riding horse, and galloped forth in the dark, cold
night for a twenty-six mile ride to Billy Little.
Soon after Rita's departure the guests began to assemble. At ten minutes
before eight came Williams. Upon his arrival, Mrs. Bays insisted that
Rita should be called, so she and Miss Tousy went to Rita's door and
knocked. The knock was repeated; still no answer. Then Mrs. Bays
determined to enter Rita's room through Tom's,--and I will draw a veil
over the scene of consternation, confusion, and rage that ensued.
* * * * *
Near the hour of two o'clock in the morning another scene of this drama
was enacted, twenty-six miles away. Billy Little was roused from his
dreams--black nightmares they had been--by a knocking on his store door,
and when he sat up in bed to listen, he heard Rita's voice calling:--
"Billy Little, let me in."
Billy ran to unlock the front door, crying: "Come in, come in, God bless
my soul, come in. Maxwelton's braes _are_ bonny, bonny, bonny. Tell me,
are you alone?"
"Yes, Billy, I'm alone, and I fear they will follow me. Hide me
somewhere. But you'll freeze without your coat. Go and--"
"Bless me, I haven't my coat and waistcoat on. Excuse me;
excuse--Maxwelton's--I'll be out immediately." And the little old fellow
scampered to his bedroom to complete his toilet. Then he lighted a
candle, placed wood on the fire, and called Rita back to his sanctum
sanctorum. She was very cold; but a spoonful of whiskey, prescribed by
Dr. Little, with a drop of water and a pinch of sugar, together with a
bit of cheese and a biscuit from the store, and the great crackling fire
on the hearth, soon brought warmth to her heart and color to her cheeks.
"What are you going to do with me now you've got me? They will come here
first to find me," she asked, laughing nervously.
"We'll go to Dic," said Billy, after a moment's meditation. "We'll go to
Dic as soon as you are rested."
"Oh, Billy Little, I--I can't go to him. You know I'm not--not--you
know."
"Not married? Is that what you mean?"
"Yes."
"I'm mighty thankful you are not. Dic's mother is with him. It will be
all perfectly proper. But never mind; I have another idea. I'll think it
over as we ride."
After Rita had rested, Billy donned the Beau Brummel coat and saddled
his horse, and the pair started up Blue to awaken Dic. He needed no
awakening, for he was sitting where we left him, on the hearth, gazing
into a bed of embers.
When our runaway couple reached Dic's house, Billy hitched his horse,
told Rita to knock at the front door, and took her horse to the stable.
When Dic heard the knock at that strange hour of the night, he
called:--
"Who's there?"
"Rita."
Dic began to fear his troubles had affected his mind; but when he heard
a voice unmistakably hers calling, "Please let me in; I have brought you
a Christmas gift," he knew that he was sane, and that either Rita or her
wraith was at the door. When she entered, clad in her wedding gown,
coonskin coat and beaver cap, he again began to doubt his senses and
stood in wonder, looking at her.
"Aren't you glad to see me, Dic?" she asked, laughing. Still he did not
respond, and she continued, "I have ridden all night to bring you a
Christmas gift."
"A Christmas gift?" he repeated, hardly conscious of the words he spoke,
so great had been the shock of his awakening from a dream of pain to a
reality of bliss. "Where--where is it?"
"Here," replied the girl, throwing off the great-coat and pressing her
hands upon her bosom to indicate herself. Then Dic, in a flood of
perceptive light and returning consciousness, caught the priceless
Christmas gift to his heart without further question.
In a moment Billy Little entered the door that Rita had closed.
"Here, here, break away," cried Billy, taking Rita and Dic each by the
right hand. As he did so Dic's mother entered from the adjoining room,
and Billy greeted her with "Howdy," but was too busy to make
explanations.
"Now face me," said that little gentleman, speaking in tones of command
to Rita and Dic.
"Clasp your right hands." The hands were clasped. "Now listen to me.
Diccon Bright, do you take this woman whom you hold by the hand to be
your wedded wife?"
Dic's faculties again began to wane, and he did not answer at once.
"The answer is, 'I do,' you stupid," cried Billy, and Dic said, "I do."
"Do you, Rita Fisher Bays,--Margarita Fisher Bays,--take this man whom
you hold by the right hand to be your husband?"
Rita's faculties were in perfect condition and very alert, so she
answered quickly, "I do."
"Then," continued our worthy justice of the peace, "by virtue of
authority vested in me by the laws of the state of Indiana, I pronounce
you husband and wife. I kiss the bride."
After kissing Rita, and shaking hands with Dic and Mrs. Bright, Billy
hurried out through the door, and the new-made husband and wife watched
him as he mounted and rode away. He was singing--not humming, but
singing--at his topmost pitch, "Maxwelton's braes are bonny, where early
falls the dew." He had never before been known to complete the stanza.
His voice could be heard after he had passed out of sight into the
forest, and just as the sun peeped from the east, turning the frost dust
to glittering diamonds and the snow-clad forest to a paradise in white,
the song lost itself among the trees, and Dic, closing the door, led
Rita to his hearth log.
* * * * *
Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall
By CHARLES MAJOR
_Author of "When Knighthood Was in Flower," etc._
With eight full-page illustrations by HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
Cloth 12mo $1.50
"Dorothy Vernon is an Elizabethan maid, but a living, loving, lovable
girl.... The lover of accuracy of history in fiction may rest contented
with the story; but he will probably care little for that once he has
been caught by the spirit and freshness of the romance."--_The Mail and
Express._
"Dorothy is a splendid creation, a superb creature of brains, beauty,
force, capacity, and passion, a riot of energy, love, and red blood. She
is the fairest, fiercest, strongest, tenderest heroine that ever woke up
a jaded novel reader and made him realize that life will be worth living
so long as the writers of fiction create her like.... The story has
brains, 'go,' virility, gumption, and originality."--_The Boston
Transcript._
"Dorothy is a fascinating character, whose womanly whims and cunning
ways in dealing with her manly, honest lover and her wrathful father are
cleverly portrayed. The interest is maintained to the end. Some might
call Dorothy a vixen, but she is of that rare and ravishing kind who
have tried (and satisfied) men's souls from the days of Mother Eve to
the present time."--_The New York Herald._
"A romance of much delicacy, variety, strength, and grace, in which are
revealed the history of four lovers who by their purely human attributes
are distinct types."--_Evening Journal News_, Evansville.
"As a study of woman, the incomprehensible, yet thoroughly lovable,
Dorothy Vernon clearly leads all recent attempts in fiction. Dorothy is
a wonderful creature."--_Columbus Evening Dispatch._
"Dorothy is a feminine whirlwind, very attractive to her audience if
somewhat disconcerting to her victims, and the story, even in these days
when romance has become a drug, makes good reading."--_New York Life._
* * * * *
The Bears of Blue River
By CHARLES MAJOR
_Author of "Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall," etc._
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. B. FROST AND OTHERS
Cloth 12mo $1.50
"The book is thoroughly healthy, and it is infused through and through
with the breath of the forests. It is a delightful book to
read."--_Charleston Sun-News._
"The book is especially adapted to boys, but the well-rounded style of
the author, combined with a little natural history, makes it at once
interesting and instructive to young and old alike."--_Plymouth Weekly._
"This is not a mere 'boy's book'; it is a work of art, appealing to the
most cultured reader."--_Christian World._
"Though the story may have been written for boys, it is even better fun
for older people and sportsmen, as a well-written, spirited book of so
strenuous a life."--_Literary World._
* * * * *
The Mettle of the Pasture
By JAMES LANE ALLEN
Author of "The Choir Invisible," "A Kentucky Cardinal,"
etc., etc.
Cloth 12mo $1.50
"'The Mettle of the Pasture' contains more characters and a greater
variety of them, it has more versatility, more light and shade, more
humor, than any of his previous books. The story, too, is wider in scope
and the central tragedy draws irresistibly to it....
"'The Mettle of the Pasture' is a novel of greatness; it is so far Mr.
Allen's masterpiece; a work of beauty and finished art. There can be no
question of its supreme place in our literature; there can be no doubt
of its wide acceptance and acceptability. More than any of his books it
is destined to an enviable popularity. It does not take extraordinary
prescience to predict an extraordinary circulation for it."
--JAMES MACARTHUR in a review in the August _Reader_.
"It may be that 'The Mettle of the Pasture' will live and become a part
of our literature; it certainly will live far beyond the allotted term
of present-day fiction. Our principal concern is that it is a notable
novel, that it ranks high in the entire range of American and English
fiction, and that it is worth the reading, the re-reading, and the
continuous appreciation of those who care for modern literature at its
best."--_The Boston Transcript._
"In 'The Mettle of the Pasture' Mr. Allen has reached the high-water
mark thus far of his genius as a novelist. The beauty of his literary
style, the picturesque quality of his description, the vitality,
fulness, and strength of his artistic powers never showed to better
advantage.... Its reader is fascinated by the picturesque descriptions,
the humor, the clear insight, and the absolute interest of his
creations."--_The Brooklyn Eagle._
* * * * *
The Call of the Wild
By JACK LONDON
Author of "The Children of the Frost," etc., etc.
Illustrated Cloth 12mo $1.50
All those who have read it believe that JACK LONDON'S new story, "The
Call of the Wild," will prove one of the half-dozen memorable books of
1903. This story takes hold of the universal things in human and animal
nature; it is one of those strong, thrilling, brilliant things which are
better worth reading the second time than the first. Entertaining
stories we have in plenty; but this is something more--it is a piece of
literature. At the same time it is an unforgettable picture of the whole
wild, thrilling, desperate, vigorous, primeval life of the Klondike
regions in the years after the gold fever set in. It ranks beside the
best things of its kind in English literature.
The tale itself has for its hero a superb dog named Buck, a cross
between a St. Bernard and a Scotch shepherd. Buck is stolen from his
home in Southern California, where Judge Miller and his family have
petted him, taken to the Klondike, and put to work drawing sledges.
First he has to be broken in, to learn "the law of club and fang." His
splendid blood comes out through the suffering and abuse, the starvation
and the unremitting toil, the hardship and the fighting and the bitter
cold. He wins his way to the mastership of his team. He becomes the best
sledge dog in Alaska. And all the while there is coming out in him "the
dominant primordial beast."
But meantime, all through the story, the interest is almost as much in
the human beings who own Buck, or who drive him, or who come in contact
with him or his masters in some way or other, as in the dog himself. He
is merely the central figure in an extraordinarily graphic and
impressive picture of life.
In none of his previous stories has Mr. LONDON achieved so strong a grip
on his theme. In none of them has he allowed his theme so strongly to
grip him. He has increased greatly in his power to tell a story. The
first strong note in the book is the coming out of the dog's good blood
through infinite hardship; the last how he finally obeyed "the call of
the wild" after his last and best friend, Thornton, was killed by the
Indians.
It has been very greatly praised during its serial run, Mr. MABIE
writing in _The Outlook_ of "its power and its unusual theme.... This
remarkable story, full of incident and of striking descriptions of life
and landscape in the far north, contains a deep truth which is embedded
in the narrative and is all the more effective because it is never
obtruded."
* * * * *
People of the Whirlpool
From the Experience Book of a Commuter's Wife
_By the Author of
"The Garden of a Commuter's Wife"_
With Eight Full-page Illustrations
Cloth 12mo $1.50
"The book is in every way a worthy companion to its very popular
predecessor."--_The Churchman._
"Altogether the story is fascinating, holding the attention with its
charm of narrative and its pictures of real life."--_Grand Rapids
Herald._
"The whole book is delicious, with its wise and kindly humor, its just
perspections of the true values of things, its clever pen pictures of
people and customs, and its healthy optimism for the great world in
general."--_Philadelphia Telegraph._
* * * * *
Anne Carmel
By GWENDOLEN OVERTON
Author of "The Heritage of Unrest"
With Illustrations by ARTHUR I. KELLER
Cloth 12mo $1.50
"A novel of uncommon beauty and depth ... in every way an unusual
book."--_Louisville Times._
"One of the few very important books of the year."--_The Sun_, New York.
"Is so far above the general run of the fiction of to-day as to be
strongly attractive, just because of this contrast, but it is, for
itself, something to move heart and brain to quick action and deep
admiration."--_Nashville American._
* * * * *
The Heart of Rome
By F. MARION CRAWFORD
Author of "Saracinesca," "In the Palace of the King,"
"Cecilia," "Ave Roma Immortalis," etc.
Cloth 12mo $1.50
This striking title is perfectly descriptive of the book. Mr. Crawford,
who has studied Rome in all its phases and has been writing novels and
serious books about it for twenty years, has undertaken to put "the
heart of Rome" into his latest novel. Many authors have undertaken to do
this, but in almost every case the result, however it may have been
praised for various features, has been adjudged in the end
unsatisfactory. The author of "Saracinesca" has here written his
strongest and best work; a novel in which, around an absorbing love
story, are described the manifold elements that go to make up the whole
of the Eternal City as it exists at the present time. It is said by
those who have read the story that it will stand as a picture of Roman
and Italian life without a peer. Mr. Crawford has been living in Italy
most of the year in order to be close to the atmosphere and the life of
the city which he has here depicted.
* * * * *
The Literary Sense
By E. NESBIT
Author of "The Red House," "The Would-Be-Goods," etc.
Cloth 12mo $1.50
This is a collection of very clever and original short stories, by an
author whose work has attracted much favorable attention here and in
England. The stories deal with lovers' meetings, partings,
misunderstandings or reconciliations. They are little tragedies or
little comedies, and sometimes both. The situations are strong and
ingeniously conceived, and each tale has a turn or twist of its own.
There is throughout a quiet vein of humor and a light touch even where
the situation is strained. In a way the stories are held together,
because most or all of them have a bearing on the idea which is set
forth in the first story--the one that gives the book its title. In that
story the girl loses her lover because, instead of acting simply and
naturally, she tries to act as if she were in a book, to follow her
"literary sense"; in other words, she has something of the same
temperament that distinguished Mr. Barrie's "Sentimental Tommy." This
idea appears and reappears in the other stories, notably in that called
"Miss Eden's Baby," which in its way is a little masterpiece.
* * * * *
On the We-a Trail
By CAROLINE BROWN
Author of "Knights in Fustian"
Cloth 12mo $1.50
This story incidentally portrays the vicissitudes and the lives of the
American pioneers in the "Great Wilderness," as the country west of the
Alleghanies was generally known. The capture and recapture of Fort
Sackville, at Vincennes on the Wabash, are important features among the
central incidents.
The action begins in mid-wilderness and culminates with the fall of the
fort under the assault of George Rogers Clark. Here the lovers are
reunited after months of separation and adventures. They were first
parted by the savages, who murdered the heroine's entire family save
herself. Driven into the forest, she is taken captive by the Indians.
She makes her escape. Later she is taken to the fort by one of
Hamilton's _coureurs de bois_, and adopted into the family of the
commandant. The lover meantime wanders from Kaskaskia to Detroit in
pursuit of the tribe which has taken captive his sweetheart, and has
various adventures by the way, many of which take place on the famous
We-a Trail. The action of the story is practically confined to Indiana,
the author's native state; and it forms an important addition to the
increasing number of novels dealing with the early life of that region
of the country.
* * * * *
The Black Chanter
and Other Highland Tales
By NIMMO CHRISTIE
Cloth 12mo $1.50
This is a remarkable group of stories by a new writer. They are all
Scotch, and deal with Scotland at a remote period--about the twelfth
century. All the tales except one--"The Wise Woman," which is the best
of all--deal with fighting, and the pipers appear in almost all. They
are stories rather for men than for women, because they deal with a
rough time in a direct way; but they are so clever that women whom
virility attracts will like them. The striking originality of these
stories augurs well for the author's future. The tales consist largely
in legends, traditions, and dramatic incidents connected with the old
life of Scottish clans. Each tale has at the end an unexpected turn or
quick bit of action, and these endings are almost invariably tragic. The
style is well suited to the character of the stories, which are wild,
weird, and queer. They have a true imaginative vein.
* * * * *
Blount of Breckenhow
By BEULAH MARIE DIX
Author of "The Making of Christopher Ferringham," "Soldier
Rigdale," and "Hugh Gwyeth"
Cloth 12mo $1.50
Its scene is laid in England in the years 1642-45. It is not a
historical novel, nor a romance, nor an adventure story; it is the story
of a brave man and a noble woman as set forth in the letters of a
prosperous family of Yorkshire gentry. James Blount, the hero, comes by
his father's side of a race of decayed northern gentry, and by his
mother's side from the yeomanry. Entering the King's army as a private
trooper, he wins a commission; but he never wins social recognition from
his brother officers, and he is left much alone. He meets Arundel Carewe
and loves her. The moment when he is about to tell his love he learns
that she is betrothed to his captain, and only friend, Bevill
Rowlestone. Blount keeps silent till near the end of the story.
Meanwhile Arundel is married to Bevill, who is a delightful
seventeenth-century lover, but not wholly satisfactory as a husband.
Arundel is in garrison with Bevill at a lonely village through the first
dreary winter of their married life. Bevill neglects what he has won,
but Blount in all honor is very tender and thoughtful of her. On the
night when Arundel's child is born, Bevill makes a gross error of
judgment and shifts a body of troops which exposes his whole position.
He entreats Blount, who is his subaltern, to shoulder the blame. For the
sake of Arundel and her child, Blount does so. The matter proves very
serious. Blount is tried by court-martial, publicly degraded, and kicked
out of the army. All trace of him is lost for some eighteen months.
Then, when Arundel and her child are in great danger in their besieged
country house, Blount, who is serving again as a private trooper,
appears and rescues her. The book does not teem with battle and
violence; only twice do the people in the story come within sound of the
guns.
* * * * *
McTodd
By CUTCLIFFE HYNE
Author of "Captain Kettle" and "Thompson's Progress"
Cloth 12mo $1.50
Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne's "McTodd" enriches literature with a new and
fascinating figure. The author established himself with his "Captain
Kettle" books, and he has made his popularity considerably more sure
through his latest story, "Thompson's Progress." McTodd, the engineer,
was quite as popular a hero in the last Captain Kettle book as that
fiery little sailor, and Mr. Hyne now makes him the chief character in a
better story. The author's invention never flags, and the new story is
full of incidents and experiences of the liveliest and most fascinating
kind. Besides drawing a better character, the author has made his
experiences more like those of real people, and has constructed a story
which is well knit, forceful, and absorbing. He has outgrown the
crudities observable in his previous books, and it is expected that his
new creation will give him a much better place in literature and will
greatly strengthen his hold on the popular approval.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
66 Fifth Avenue, New York
Transcriber's note:
A number of instances of 'Dic' being misspelt as 'Dick' have been
corrected.
Printer's errors have been corrected, all other inconsistencies
are as in the original.