A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 36

After rambling over the keys for two or three minutes, he turned savagely upon Dic, saying:--

"I wish you would tell me why you come to me for advice. You don't take it."

"Yes, I do, Billy Little. I value your advice above every one else's."

"Stuff and nonsense. I warned you against that girl--the dimpler: much you heeded me. Do you think I'm a free advice factory? Get out of here, get out of here, I say, and let me never see your face--"

"Oh, Billy Little, don't, don't," cried Dic. "You can't forsake me after all these years you have helped me. You can't do it, Billy Little!"

"Get out of here, I say, and don't come back--" ("Ah, Billy Little, I beg--") "till to-morrow morning. Come to-morrow, and I will try to tell you what to do." Dic rushed upon the terrible little fellow, clasped his small form with a pair of great strong arms, and ran from the room.

Billy sat for a moment gazing at the door through which Dic had pa.s.sed; then he arranged his stock, and turned to his piano for consolation and inspiration.

Billy knew that he knew Dic, and believed he knew Sukey. He knew, among other facts concerning Dic, that he was not a libertine; that he was pure in mind and purpose; that he loved and revered Rita Bays; and that he did not care a pin for Sukey's manifold charms of flesh and blood. He believed that Sukey was infatuated with Dic, and that her fondness grew partly out of the fact that he did not fall before her smiles. He also believed that her regard for Dic did not preclude, in her comprehensive little heart, great tenderness for other men. Sukey had, upon one occasion, been engaged to marry three separate and distinct swains of the neighborhood, and a triangular fight among the three suitors had aroused in the breast of her girl friends a feeling of envy that was delicious to the dimpling little _casus belli_. After Dic's departure, Billy sat throughout most of the night gazing into the fire, smoking his pipe, and turning the situation over in his mind. When Dic arrived next morning he was seated on the counter ready with his advice. The young man took a seat beside him.

"Now tell me all about it," said Billy. "I think I know, but tell me the exact truth. Don't spare the dimpler, and don't spare yourself."

Thereupon Dic unfolded his story with a naked truthfulness that made him blush.

"I thought as much," remarked Billy, when the story was finished. "Miss Potiphar from Egypt has brought you and herself into trouble."

"No, no, Billy Little, you are wrong. I cannot escape blame by placing the fault upon her. I should despise myself if I did; but I would be a blind fool not to see that--that--oh, I cannot explain. You know there are j.a.p Bertram, d.i.c.k Olders, Tom Printz, and, above all, Tom Bays, who are her close friends and constant visitors and--and, you know--you understand my doubts. I do not trust her. I may be wrong, but I suppose I should wish to err on the right side. It is better that I should err in trusting her than to be unjust in doubting her. The first question is: Shall I marry Sukey if Rita will forgive me? The second, Shall I marry her if Rita refuses to forgive me? Am I bound by honor and duty to sacrifice my happiness for the sake of the girl whom I do not, but perhaps should, trust?"

"I don't see that your happiness has anything to do with the case,"

returned Billy. "If that alone were to be considered, I should say marry Sukey regardless of your doubts. You deserve the penalty; but Rita has done no sin, and you have no right to punish her to pay your debts. You are bound by every tie of honor to marry her, and you shall do so. The dimpler is trying to take you from Rita, and if you are not careful your fool conscience will help her to do it."

"If Rita will forgive me," said Dic.

"She'll forgive you sooner or later," answered Billy. "Her love and forgiveness are benedictions she cannot withhold nor you escape."

I doubt if Billy Little would have been so eager in forwarding this marriage had not Williams been frowning in the background. Billy, as you know, had a heart of his own--a bachelor heart; but he hated Williams, and was intensely jealous of him. So, taking the situation at its worst, Dic was the lesser of two evils. But, as I have already told you many times, he pa.s.sionately loved Dic for his own sake, and his unselfish regard for the priceless girl made the young man doubly valuable as a means to her happiness. If Rita wanted a lover, she must have him. If she wanted the moon, she ought to have it--should have it, if Billy Little could get it for her. So felt Billy, whose advice brought joy to Dic. It also brought to him the necessity of a painful interview with Sukey. He dreaded the interview, and told Billy he thought he would write to Sukey instead.

"You can pay at least a small part of the penalty you owe by seeing the girl and bearing the pain of an interview," replied Billy. "But if you are too cowardly to visit her, write. I suppose that's what I should do if I were in your place. But I'd be a poor example for a manly man to follow."

"I'll see her," replied Dic. "Poor Sukey! I pity her."

"It isn't safe to pity a girl like Sukey. Pity has a dangerous kinsman,"

observed Billy.

On his way home, Dic called upon Sukey, and, finding her out, left word he would return that evening. When she received the message her heart throbbed with hope, and the dimples twinkled joyously for the first time in many days. She used all the simple arts at her command to adorn herself for his reception, and toiled to a.s.sist the dimples in the great part they would soon be called upon to play in the drama of her life.

She knew that Dic did not trust her, and from that knowledge grew her own doubts as to the course he would take. Hope and fear warmed and chilled her heart by turns; but her efforts to display her charms were truly successful; and faith, born of man's admiration, led her to believe she would that night win the greatest prize the world had to offer, and would save herself from ruin and disgrace.

Soon after supper the family were relegated to the kitchen, and Sukey, with palpitating heart, waited in the front room for Dic.

Among our simple rural folk a decollete gown was considered immodest. In order to be correct the collar must cover the throat, as nearly to the chin and ears as possible. Sukey's dresses were built upon this plan, much to her regret; for her throat and bosom were as white and plump--but never mind the description. They suited Sukey, and so far as I have ever heard they were entirely satisfactory to those so fortunate as to behold them. Therefore, when she was alone, knowing well the inutility of the blus.h.i.+ng rose unseen, she opened the dress collar and tucked it under at each side, displaying her rounded white throat, with its palpitating little spot--almost another dimple--where it merged into the bosom. There was no immodest exposure, but when Mrs. Yates returned to the room for her gla.s.ses, the collar was quickly readjusted and remained in place till Dic's step was heard. Now, ready, and all together: dimples, lips, teeth, eyes, and throat, do your duty! So much depended upon Dic that she wanted to fall upon her knees when he entered. It grieves me to write thus of our poor, simple little girl, whose faults were thrust upon her, and I wish I might have told this story with reference only to her dimples and her sweetness; but Dic shall not be hopelessly condemned for his sin, if I can prevent it, save by those who are ent.i.tled to cast stones, and to prevent such condemnation I must tell you the truth about Sukey. The fact that he would not claim the extenuation of temptation is at least some reason why he should have it.

I shall not tell you the details of this interview. Soon after Dic's arrival our little Hebe was in tears, and he, moved by her suffering, could not bring himself to tell her his determination. Truly, Billy was right. It was dangerous to pity such a girl. Dic neither consented nor refused to marry her, but weakly evaded the subject, and gave her the impression that he would comply with her wishes. He did not intend to create that impression; but in her ardent desire she construed his silence to suit herself, and, becoming radiant with joy, was prettier and more enticing than she had ever before appeared. Therefore, as every man will agree, Dic's task became difficult in proportion, and painful beyond his most gloomy antic.i.p.ations. His weakness grew out of a great virtue--the wholesome dread of inflicting pain.

During the evening Sukey offered Dic a cup of cider, and her heart beat violently while he drank.

"It has a peculiar taste," he remarked.

"There are crab apples in it," the girl answered.

There was something more than crab apples in the cider; there was a love powder, and two hours after Dic's arrival at home he became ill. Dr.

Kennedy ascribed the illness to poisoning, and for a time it looked as if Sukey's love powder would solve several problems; but Dic recovered, and the problems were still unsolved.

From the day Dic received Sukey's unwelcome letter, he knew it was his duty to inform Rita of his trouble. He was sure she would soon learn the interesting truth from disinterested friends, should the secret become public property on Blue, and he wanted at least the benefit of an honest confession. That selfishness, however, was but a small part of his motive. He sincerely felt that it was Rita's privilege to know all about the affair, and his duty to tell her. He had no desire to conceal his sin; he would not take her love under a false pretence. He almost felt that confession would purge him of his sin, and looked forward with a certain pleasure to the pain he would inflict upon himself in telling her. In his desire for self-castigation he lost sight of the pain he would inflict upon her. He knew she would be pained by the disclosure, but he feared more its probable effect upon her love for him, and looked for indignant contempt and scorn from her, rather than for the manifestation of great pain. He resolved to write to Rita at once and make a clean breast of it; but Billy advised him to wait till she was entirely well.

Dic, quite willing to postpone his confession, wrote several letters, which kind Miss Tousy delivered; but he did not speak of Sukey Yates until Rita's letters informed him that she was growing strong. Then he wrote to her and told her in as few words as possible the miserable story of his infidelity. He did not blame Sukey, nor excuse himself. He simply stated the fact and said: "I hardly dare hope for your forgiveness. It seems that you must despise me as I despise myself. It is needless for me to tell you of my love for you, which has not wavered during so many years that I have lost their count. But now that I deserve your scorn; now that I am in dread of losing you who have so long been more than all else to me, you are dearer than ever before.

Write to me, I beg, and tell me that you do not despise me. Ah, Rita, compared to you, there is no beauty, no purity, no tenderness in the world. There seems to be but one woman--you, and I have thrown away your love as if I were a blind fool who did not know its value. Write to me, I beg, and tell me that I am forgiven."

But she did not write to him. In place of a letter he received a small package containing the ivory box and the unfortunate band of gold that had brought trouble to Billy Little long years before.

WISE MISS TOUSY

CHAPTER XIV

WISE MISS TOUSY

Upon first reading Dic's letter, Rita was stunned by its contents; but within a day or two her thoughts and emotions began to arrange themselves, and out of order came conclusion. The first conclusion was a surprise to her: she did not love Dic as she had supposed. A scornful indifference seemed to occupy the place in her heart that for years had been Dic's. With that indifference came a sense of change. Dic was not the Dic she had known and loved. He was another person; and to this feeling of strangeness was added one of scorn. This new Dic was a man unworthy of any pure girl's love; and although her composite emotion was streaked with excruciating pain, as a whole it was decidedly against him, and she felt that she wished never to see him again. She began a letter to him, but did not care to finish it, and returned the ring without comment, that being the only answer he deserved. Pages of scorn could not have brought to Dic a keener realization of the certainty and enormity of his loss. He returned the ring to Billy Little.

"I thank you for it, Billy, though it has brought grief to me as it did to you. I do not blame the ring; my loss is my own fault; but it is strange that the history of the ring should repeat itself. It almost makes one superst.i.tious."

"Egad! no one else shall suffer by it," said Billy, opening the huge iron stove and throwing the ring into the fire.

Dic's loss was so heavy that it mollified Billy's anger, which for several days had been keen against his young friend. Billy's own pain and grief also had a softening effect upon his anger; for with Dic out of the way, Rita Bays, he thought, would soon become Mrs. Roger Williams, and that thought was torture to the bachelor heart.

Rita, bearing the name of his first and only sweetheart, had entered the heart of this man's second youth; and in the person of Dic he was wooing her and fighting the good fight of love against heavy odds. Dic, upon receiving the ring, was ready to surrender; but Billy well knew that many a battle had been won after defeat, and was determined not to throw down his arms.

Thinking over his situation, Dic became convinced that since Rita was lost to him, he was in honor bound to marry Sukey Yates. Life would be a desert waste, but there was no one to thank for the future Sahara but himself, and the self-inflicted sand and thirst must be endured. The thought of marrying Sukey Yates at first caused him almost to hate her; but after he had pondered the subject three or four days, familiarity bred contempt of its terrors. Once having accepted the unalterable, he was at least rid of the pain of suspense. He tried to make himself believe that his pain was not so keen as he had expected it would be; and by shutting out of his mind all thoughts of Rita, he partially succeeded.

Sunday afternoon Dic saw Sukey at church and rode home with her, resting that evening upon her ciphering log. He had determined to tell her that he would marry her; but despite his desire to end the suspense, he could not bring himself to speak the words. He allowed her to believe, by inference, what she chose, and she, though still in great doubt, felt that the important question was almost settled in her favor.

During the interim of four or five days Billy Little secretly called upon Miss Tousy, and incidentally dropped in to see Rita.

After discussing matters of health and weather, Billy said: "Rita, you must not be too hard on Dic. He was not to blame. Sukey is a veritable little Eve, and--"

"Billy Little, I am sorry to hear you place the blame on Sukey. I suppose Dic tells you she was to blame."

"By Jove! I've made a nice mess of it," muttered Billy. "No, Dic blames himself entirely, but I know whereof I speak. That girl is in love with him, and has set this trap to steal him from you and get him for herself. She has been trying for a long time to entrap him, and you are helping her. Dic is a true, pure man, who has been enticed into error and suffers for it. You had better die unmarried than to lose him."

"I hope to die unmarried, and I pray that I may die soon," returned Rita with a deep, sad sigh.