A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 32

"And--and you"--Billy paused for breath and danced excitedly about the room--"and you did not--you--you, oh--Maxwelton's braes--and you--Ah, well, there is nothing to be gained by talking to you upon that subject.

What _do_ you think of the administration? Jackson is a hickory blockhead, eh? Congress a stupendous aggregation of a.s.ses. Yes, everybody is an a.s.s, of course; but there is one who is monumental.

Monumental, I say. Monu--ah, well--Maxwelton's braes are bonny--um--um--um--um--d.a.m.n!" And Billy sat down disgusted, turning his face from Dic.

After a long pause Dic spoke: "I believe you are right, Billy Little. I should have brought her."

"Believe--" cried the angry little friend. "Don't you know it? The _pons asinorum_ is a mere hypothesis compared to the demonstration in this case."

"But she was not of age, and could not marry without her parents'

consent," said Dic. "Had I brought her home, we could have found no one to perform the ceremony."

"I would have done it quickly enough; I am a justice of the peace. I could have done it as well as forty preachers. I should have been fined for transgressing the law in marrying you without a license, but I would have done it, and it would have been as legal as if it had taken place in a cathedral. We could have paid the fine between us."

"Well, what's to be done?" asked Dic, after a long, awkward pause. "It's not too late."

"Yes, it's too late," answered Billy. "I wash my hands of the whole affair. When a man can get a girl like Rita, and throws away his chance, he's beyond hope. I supposed you had bought her for twenty-six hundred dollars--you will never see a penny of it again--and a bargain at the price. She is worth twenty-six hundred million; but if you could not buy her, you should have borrowed, stolen, kidnapped--anything to get her.

Now what do you think of yourself?"

"Not much, Billy Little, not much," answered Dic, regretfully. "But you should have said all this to me long ago. Advice after the fact is like meat after a feast--distasteful."

"Ah, you are growing quite epigrammatic," said Billy, snappishly; "but there is some truth in your contention. We will begin again. When we see Rita, we will formulate a plan and try to thwart Justice."

"What plan have you in mind?" asked Dic, eager to discuss the subject.

"I have none," Billy replied. "Rita will perhaps furnish both the plan and the girl."

Dic did not relish the suggestion that Rita would be willing to take so active a part in the transaction, and said:--

"I fear you do not know Rita. She is not bold enough to do what you hope. If she will come with us, it will be all I can expect. We must do the planning."

"You say she offered to come with you?" asked Billy.

"Y-e-s," responded Dic, hesitatingly; "but she is the most timid of girls, and we shall need to be very persuasive if--"

Billy laughed and interrupted him: "All theory, Dic; all theory and wrong. 'Deed, if I knew you were such a fool! The gentlest and most guileless of women are the bravest and boldest under the stress of a great motive. The woman who is capable of great love is sure also to have the capacity for great courage. I know Rita better than you suppose, and, mark my words, she will furnish both the plan and the girl; and if you grow supercilious, egad! I'll take her myself."

"I'll not grow supercilious. She is perfect, and anything she'll do will be all right. I can't believe she is really to be mine. It seems more like a castle in the air than a real fact."

"It is not a fact yet," returned Billy, croakingly; "and if this trip doesn't make it a fact, I venture to prophesy you will have an untenanted aerial structure on your hands before long."

"You don't believe anything of the sort, Billy Little," said Dic. "I can't lose her. It couldn't happen. It couldn't."

"We'll see. There's the stage horn. Let us hurry out and get an inside seat. The sky looks overcast, and I shouldn't like to have this coat rained upon. There's a fine piece of cloth, Dic. Feel it." Dic complied.

"Soft as silk, isn't it?" continued Billy. "They don't make such cloth in these days of flimsy woolsey. Got it thirty years ago from the famous Schwitzer on Cork Street. Tailor shop there for ages. Small shop--dingy little hole, but that man Schwitzer was an artist. Made garments for all the beaux. Brummel used to draw his own patterns in that shop--in that very shop, Dic. Think of wearing a coat made by Brummel's tailor.

Remarkable man that, Brummel--George Bryan Brummel. Good head, full of good brains. Son of a confectioner; friend of a prince. Upon one occasion the Prince of Wales wept because Brummel made sport of his coat. Yes, egad! blubbered. I used to know him well. Knew the 'First Gentleman' of Europe, too, the Prince of Wales. Won a thousand and eleven pounds from Brummel one night at whist. He paid the eleven and still owes the thousand. Had a letter from him less than a year ago, saying he hoped to pay me some day; but bless your soul, Dic, he'll never be able to pay a farthing. He's in France now, because he owes nearly every one in England. Fine gentleman, though, fine gentleman, every inch of him. Well, this coat was made by his tailor. You don't blame me for taking good care of it, do you?"

"Indeed not," answered Dic, amused, though in sympathy with Beau Brummel's friend.

"I have two vests in my trunk by the same artist," continued Billy. "I don't wear them now. They won't b.u.t.ton 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 companions.h.i.+p, 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 G.o.ddess. Dic, wis.h.i.+ng to surprise Rita, had not informed her of his intended visit. After waiting a few minutes he asked, "Where is Rita?"

"She is sick," responded Mrs. Bays. "She has not been out of her bed for three days. We have had two doctors with her. She took seven different kinds of medicine all yesterday, and to-day she has been very bad."

"No wonder," remarked Billy; "it's a miracle she isn't dead. Seven different kinds! It's enough to have killed a horse. Fortunately she is young and very strong."

"Well, I'm sure she would have died without them," answered Mrs. Bays.

"You believe six different kinds would not have saved her, eh?" asked Billy.

"Something saved her. It must have been the medicine," replied Mrs.

Bays, partly unconscious of Billy's irony. She was one of the many millions who always accept the current humbug in whatever form he comes.

Let us not, however, speak lightly of the humble humbug. Have you ever considered how empty this world would be without his cheering presence?

You notice I give the noun "humbug" the masculine gender. The feminine members of our race have faults, but great, monumental, world-pervading humbugs are masculine, one and all, from the old-time witch doctor and Druid priest down to the--but Mrs. Bays was speaking:--

"The doctors worked with her for four hours last night, and when they left she was almost dead."

"Almost?" interrupted Billy. "Fortunate girl!"

"I hope I may see her," asked Dic, timidly.

"No, you can't," replied Mrs. Bays with firmness. "She's in bed, and I _hardly_ think it would be the proper thing."

"Dic!" called a weak little voice from the box stairway leading from the room above. "Dic!" And that young man sprang to the stairway door with evident intent to mount. Mrs. Bays hurried after him, crying:--

"You shall not go up there. She's in bed, I tell you. You can't see her."

Billy rose to his feet and stood behind her. When Dic stopped, at the command of Mrs. Bays, Billy made an impatient gesture and pointed to the room above, emphasizing the movement with a look that plainly said, "Go on, you fool," and Dic went.

Mrs. Bays turned quickly upon Billy, but his pale countenance was as expressionless as usual, and he was examining his finger tips with such care one might have supposed them to be rare natural curiosities.

"Ah, Dic," cried the same little voice from the bed, when that young man entered the room, and two white arms, from which the sleeves had fallen back, were held out to him as the pearly gates might open to a wandering soul.

Dic knelt by the bedside, and the white arms entwined themselves about his neck. He spoke to her rapturously, and placed his cool cheek against her feverish face. Then the room grew dark to the girl, her eyes closed, and she fainted.

Dic thought she was dead, and in an agony of alarm placed his ear to her heart, hoping to hear its beating. No human motive could have been purer than Dic's. Of that fact I know you are sure, else I have written of him in vain; but when Mrs. Bays entered the room and saw him, she was pleased to cry out:--

"Help! help! he has insulted my daughter."

Billy mounted the stairway in three jumps, a feat he had not performed in twenty years, and when he entered the room Mrs. Bays pointed majestically to the man kneeling by Rita's bed.

"Take that man from my house, Mr. Little," cried Mrs. Bays in a sepulchral, judicial tone of voice. "He broke into her room and insulted my sick daughter when she was unconscious."

Dic remained upon his knees by the bedside, and did not fully grasp the meaning of his accuser's words. Billy stepped to Rita's side, and taking her unresisting hand hastily sought her pulse. Then he spoke gruffly to Mrs. Bays, who had wrought herself into a spasm of injured virtue.

"She has fainted," cried Billy. "Fetch cold water quickly, and a drop of whiskey."

Mrs. Bays hastened downstairs, and Dic followed her.