"We must adopt some plan to prevent people from connecting another person with this affair," suggested Dic. "If you will come down to Bays's farm for a day's hunting,I will meet you there, and the result may be attributed by the survivor to a hunting accident."
"The plan suits me," said Williams. "I'll meet you there to-morrow at noon. I'll tell Tom I have an engagement to go squirrel-hunting with you."
Dic rode home, and of course carried the news of his forthcoming duel to Billy Little.
"There are worse institutions in this world than the duel," remarked Billy, much to his listener's surprise. "It helps to thin out the fools."
"But, Billy Little, I must fight him," responded Dic. "He insists, and will not accept my refusal. He says I am afraid to fight him."
"If he should say you were a blackamoor, I suppose you would be black," retorted Billy. "Is that the way of it?"
"But I am glad he does not give me an opportunity to refuse," said Dic.
"I supposed as much," answered Billy. "You will doubtless be delighted if he happens to put a bullet through you, and will surely be happy for life if you kill him."
"It is his doing, Billy Little," said Dic, with an ugly gleam in his eyes, "and I would not balk him. Billy Little, I would fight that man if I knew I should hang for it the next day. I'll tell you—he grossly insulted Rita Monday evening. He held her by force and kissed her lips till she was hardly conscious."
"Good God!" cried Billy, springing to his feet and trembling with excitement. "Fight him, Dic! Kill him, Dic! Kill the brute! If you don't, by the good God, I will."
"You need not urge me, Billy Little. I'm quite willing enough. Still I hope I shall not kill him."
"You hope you will not kill him?" demanded Billy. "If you do not, I will. Where do you meet?"
"He will be at Bays's house to-morrow noon, and we will go up to my cleared eighty, half a mile north. There we will step off a course of two hundred yards and fire. Whatever happens we will say was the result of a hunting accident."
Billy determined to be in hiding near the field of battle, and was secreted in the forest adjoining the cleared eighty an hour before noon next day. Late in the morning Dic took his rifle and walked down to the Bays's house. I shall not try to describe his sensations.
Williams was waiting, and Dic found him carefully examining his gun. The gun contained a bullet which, Dic thought, with small satisfaction, might within a short time end his worldly troubles, and the troubles seemed more endurable than ever before. Sleep had cooled his brain since his conversation with Billy, and he could not work himself into a murderous state of mind. He possessed Rita, and love made him magnanimous. He did not want to fight, though fear was no part of his reluctance. The manner of his antagonist soon left no doubt in Dic's mind that the battle was sure to come off. Something in Williams—perhaps it was his failure to meet his enemy's eyes—alarmed Dic's suspicions, and for a moment he feared treachery at the hands of his morose foe; but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and opening the gate started up the river path, taking the lead. He was ashamed to show his distrust of Williams, though he could not entirely throw it off, and the temptation to turn his head now and then to watch his following enemy was irresistible. They had been walking but a few minutes when Dic, prompted by distrust, suddenly turned his head and looked into the barrel of a gun held firmly to the shoulder of our gentleman from Boston. With the nimbleness of a cat, Dic sprang to one side, and a bullet whistled past his face. One second later in turning his head and the hunting accident would have occurred.
After the shot Williams in great agitation said:—
"I saw a squirrel and have missed it."
"You may walk ahead," answered Dic, with not a nerve ruffled. "You might see another squirrel."
Williams began to reload his gun, but Dic interrupted the proceeding.
"Don't load now. We will soon reach the clearing."
Williams continued reloading, and was driving the patch down upon the powder. Dic cocked his rifle, and raising it halfway to his shoulder, said:—
"Don't put the bullet in unless you wish me to see a squirrel. I'll not miss. Throw me your bullet pouch."
Williams, whose face looked like a mask of death, threw the bullet pouch to Dic, and, in obedience to a gesture, walked forward on the path. After taking a few steps he looked backward to observe the man he had tried to murder.
"You need not watch me," Dic said; "I'm not hunting squirrels."
Soon they reached the open field. Dic had cleared every foot of the ground, and loved it because he had won it single-handed in a battle royal with nature; but nature was a royal foe that, when conquered, gave royal spoils of victory. The rich bottom soil had year by year repaid Dic many-fold for his labor. He loved the land, and if fate should prove unkind to him, he would choose that spot of all others upon which to fall.
"Is this the place?" asked Williams.
"Yes," answered Dic, tossing the bullet pouch. "Now you may load."
When Williams had finished loading, Dic said: "I will drop my hat here. We will walk from each other, you going west, I going east. The sun is in the south. When we have each taken one hundred steps, we will call 'Ready,' turn, and fire when we choose."
Accordingly, Dic dropped his hat, and the two men started, one toward the east, one toward the west, while the sun was shining in the south. Williams quickly ran his hundred steps.
Dic had counted forty steps when he heard the cry "Dic" coming from the forest ten yards to the south, and simultaneously the sharp crack of a rifle behind him. At the same instant his left leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground, supposing he had stepped into a muskrat hole. After he had fallen he turned quickly toward Williams and saw that gentleman hastily reloading his gun. Then he fully realized that his antagonist had shot him, though he was unable to account for the voice he had heard from the forest. That mystery, too, was quickly explained when he heard Billy's dearly loved voice calling to Williams:—
"Drop that gun, or you die within a second."
Turning to the left Dic saw his friend holding the rifle which had fallen from his own hands when he went down, and the little fellow looked the picture of determined ferocity. Williams dropped his gun. Dic was sitting upright where he had fallen, and Billy, handing him the weapon, said:—
"Kill him, Dic; kill him as you would a wolf. I'm afraid if I shoot I'll miss him, and then he will reload and kill you."
Williams was a hundred and forty yards away, but Dic could easily have pierced his heart. He took the gun and lifted it to his shoulder. Williams stood motionless as a tree upon a calm day. Dic lowered his gun, but after a pause lifted it again and covered Williams's heart. He held the gun to his shoulder for a second or two, then he threw it to the ground, saying:—
"I can't kill him. Tell him to go, Billy Little. Tell him to go before I kill him."
"'Kill Him, Dic; Kill Him As You Would A Wolf.'"
Williams took up his gun from the ground and started to leave, when Dic said to Billy Little:—
"Tell him to leave his bullets."
Williams dropped the bullet pouch without a command from Billy, and again started to leave. Dic tried to rise to his feet, but failed.
"I guess I'm wounded," he said hoarsely. "My God, Billy Little, look at the blood I've lost! I—I feel weak—and—and dizzy. I believe I'm going to faint," and he accordingly did so. Billy cut away the trousers from Dic's wounded leg, disclosing a small round hole in the thigh. The blood was issuing in ugly spurts, and at once Billy knew an artery had been wounded. He tore the trousers leg into shreds and made a tourniquet which he tied firmly above the wound and soon the hæmorrhage was greatly reduced. By the time the tourniquet was adjusted, Williams was well down towards the river, and Billy called to him:—
"Go up the river to the first house and tell Mrs. Bright to send the man down with the wagon. Perhaps if you assist us, the theory of the accident will be more plausible."
Williams did as directed. Dic was taken home. Within an hour Kennedy, summoned by an unwilling messenger, was by the wounded man's side. Billy Little was watching with Dic's mother, anxious to hear the doctor's verdict. There was still another anxious watcher, our pink and white little nymph, Sukey, though the pink had, for the time, given way to the white. She made no effort to conceal her grief, and was willing that all who looked might see her love for the man who was lying on the bed unconscious.
Williams remained with Bays's tenant till next day, and then returned to Indianapolis, carrying the news of the "accident."
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 dismissedit 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.
"Youdon'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 oldestand 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'scourse 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 Cæsar, 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 believeRita 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. Whatdoyou 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? Thepons asinorumis 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—youwill 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 Ihardlythink 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."
"Youdon'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.Iinsult 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 contritespirit 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.
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 strengthwith 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 protégée; 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 youcarte 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 visitthat 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 lovinghim 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 protégé. 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 meto 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 andjoyous, 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 tellsme 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) F9K2. 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 thecalm 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. Ihave never said that I loved you—you have never asked me—but you know it more surely than words can tell.'"'Sukey.'"
"'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. Ihave 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 growndesperately 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—"