A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 22

"Don't touch me, I say! Don't touch me!" She had endured his presence till she could bear it no longer, and the thought of Dic sitting with Sukey had so wrought upon her that her self-control was exhausted.

Williams walked back to the fireplace, and Rita, opening the stair door, hurriedly went to her room.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "COVERING HER FACE WITH HER HANDS, SHE BEGAN TO WEEP."]

She was not one in whom the baser sort of jealousy could exist; but the thought of Dic, her Dic, sitting with Sukey, while she was compelled to endure the presence of the man she had learned almost to hate, burned her. Her jealousy did not take the form of hatred toward Sukey, and the pain it brought her was chiefly because it confirmed her in the belief that she had lost Dic. She did not doubt that Dic had loved her, and her faith in that fact quickened her sense of loss. She blamed no one but herself for the fact that he no longer loved her, and was seeking another. Still, she was jealous, though even that unholy pa.s.sion could not be base in her.

Sukey smiled and dimpled at Dic for an hour or two with no appreciable effect. He sat watching the fire, seeing none of her little love signals, and went home quite as wretched as he had come. Evidently, Sukey was the wrong remedy, though upon seeing her charms one would have felt almost justified in warranting her,--no cure, no pay. Perhaps she was a too-willing remedy: an overdose of even the right drug may neutralize itself. As for myself, I love Dic better because his ailment responded to no remedy.

Next day, Tom, without at all deserving it, won Rita's grat.i.tude by taking Williams out shooting.

After supper Rita said, "My head aches, and if I may be excused, I will go to my room."

But her mother vetoed the proposition:--

"Your head does not ache, and you will stay downstairs. Your father and I are going to church, and Mr. Williams will not want to be alone, will you, Mr. Williams?"

"Indeed, I hope Miss Bays will keep me company," answered this persistent, not-to-be-shaken-off suitor.

So Rita remained downstairs with Williams and listened to his apologies for having offended her the night before. She felt contrite, and in turn told him she was the one who should apologize, and said she hoped he would forgive her. Her gentle heart could not bear to inflict pain even upon this man who had brought so much suffering to her.

The next morning took Williams away, and Rita's thoughts were all devoted to formulating a plan whereby she might see Dic and beg his forgiveness after a fas.h.i.+on that would have been a revelation to Williams.

Several days of furious storm ensued, during which our Rita, for the first time in her life, was too ill to go abroad.

Mr. Bays had gone to Indianapolis with Williams, and returned on Thursday's coach, having failed to raise the three thousand dollars. At the supper table, on the evening of his return, Tom offered a suggestion.

"I'll tell you where you can get most of the money," he said. "Dic has twenty-six hundred dollars in Billy Little's box. He'll loan it to you."

"That's just the thing," cried Mrs. Bays, joyfully. "Tom, you are the smartest boy on Blue. It took you to help us out." One would have thought from her praise that Tom, and not Dic, was to furnish the money.

Addressing her husband, she continued:--

"You go over and see him this evening. If he won't loan it to us after all we have done for him, he ought to be horsewhipped."

"What have we ever done for him?" asked Tom. The Chief Justice sought for an answer. Failing to find a better one, she replied:--

"He's had five hundred meals in this house if he's had one."

"And he's given us five hundred deer and turkeys if he's given us one,"

answered Tom.

"Well, you know, Tom, just as well as I do, that we have always been helping him. It is only your generous nature keeps you from saying so,"

responded Mrs. Bays. Tom laughed, and Tom, Sr., said:--

"I'll go over and see him this evening. I wonder where he has been? I haven't seen him but once since he came home."

"Guess Williams scared him off," suggested Tom.

Rita tried in vain to think of some plan whereby she might warn Dic against loaning the money, or prevent her father from asking it. After supper Tom went to town while his father went up to see Dic.

When the after-supper work was finished, Mrs. Bays took her knitting and sat before the fire in the front room. Rita, wis.h.i.+ng to be alone, remained in the kitchen, watching the fire die down and cuddling her grief. She had been there but a few minutes when the outer door opened and in walked Dic.

"I have come to ask you if you have forgotten me?" he said.

The girl answered with a cry of joy, and ran to him.

"Ah, Dic, I have forgotten all else. Forgive me. Forgive me," she replied, and as the tears came, he drew her to his side.

"But, Rita--this man Williams?" he asked.

"I ... I know, Dic," she said between sobs, "I ... I know, but I can't ... can't tell you now. Wait till I can speak. But I love you.

I ... can tell you that much. I will try to ... to explain when ... I can talk."

"You need explain nothing," said Dic, soothingly. "I want only to know that you have not forgotten me. I have suffered terribly these last few days."

"I'm so glad," responded the sobbing girl, unconscious of her apparent selfishness.

The kitchen fireplace was too small for a hearth log, so Dic and Rita took chairs before the fire, and the girl, regardless of falling tears, began her explanation.

"You see, it was this way, Dic," she sobbed. "He came with Uncle Jim, and then he came again and again. I did not want him--I am sure you know that I did not--but mother insisted, and I thought you would make it all right when you returned. You know mother has heart trouble, and any excitement may kill her. She is so--so--her will is so strong, and I fear her and love her so much. She is my mother, and it is my duty to obey her when--when I can. The time may come when I cannot obey her. It has come, several times, and when I disobey her I suffer terribly and always think how I would feel if she were to die."

Dic longed to enlighten her concerning the mother heart, but could not find it in his heart to attack even his arch-enemy through Rita's simple, unquestioning faith. That faith was a part of the girl's transcendent perfection, and a good daughter would surely make a good wife.

Rita continued her explanation: "He came many times to see me, and it seems as though he grew to liking me. Then he asked me to marry him, but I refused, Dic; I refused. I should have told him then that I had promised to be your wife--" here she gave Dic her hand--"but I was ashamed and--and, oh, I can't explain after all. I can't tell you how it all happened. I thought I could; but I really do not myself understand how it has all come about."

"You have not promised him?" asked Dic in alarm.

"Indeed, I have not, and I never shall. He has tried, with mother's help, to force himself upon me, and I have been frightened almost to death for fear he would succeed. Oh, take me now, Dic. Take me at once and save me from him."

"I would, Rita, but you are not yet eighteen, and we must have the consent of your parents before we can marry. That, you know, your mother would refuse. When you are eighteen--but that will be almost a year from now--I will take you home with me. Do not fear. Give me your love, and trust to me for the rest."

"Now I feel safe," she cried, s.n.a.t.c.hing up Dic's hand. "You are stronger than mother. I saw that the evening before you left, when we were all on the porch and you spoke up so bravely to her. You will meet her face to face and beat down her will. I can't do it. I become helpless when she attacks me. I am miserably weak. I sometimes hate myself and fear I should not marry you. I know I shall not be able to make you a good wife."

Dic expressed an entire willingness to take the risk. "But why did you accept a ring from him?"

"I did not," responded Rita, with wide-open eyes. "He offered me a diamond when he asked me to--to--but I refused it. I gave him back his watch, too; but mother does not know I did. She would be angry. She thinks the watch you gave me is the one he offered."

"Sukey Yates said you showed her his ring."

"Dic," returned Rita, firing up indignantly, "did Sukey tell you that--that lie? I don't like to use the word, but, Dic, she lied. She once saw your ring upon my finger, before I could hide it from her, but I did not tell her who had given it to me. I told her nothing. I don't believe she intended to tell a story. I am sorry I used the other word.

She probably thought that Mr.--Mr.--that man had given it to me." After she had spoken, a shadowy little cloud came upon her face. "You were over to see Sukey Christmas night," she said, looking very straight into the fire.

"Yes," returned Dic. "How did you learn that I was there?"

"Tom told me," she answered. "And I cried right out before Mr.--Mr.--the Boston man."

"Ah, did you?" asked Dic, leaning forward and taking her hand.

"Yes; and when he put his hand on my arm," she continued, very proud of the spirit she had shown, "I just flew at him savagely. Oh, I can be fierce when I wish. He will never touch me again, you may depend on it."