"I can't kill him. Tell him to go, Billy Little. Tell him to go before I kill him."



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 haemorrhage 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."



THE LOVE POWDER

CHAPTER XII

THE LOVE POWDER

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 dismissed it 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.

"You don'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 oldest and 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's course 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 Caesar, 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 believe Rita 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. What do you 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? 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 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 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.

"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."

"You don'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. I insult 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 contrite spirit 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.



THE DIMPLER

CHAPTER XIII

THE DIMPLER

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 strength with 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 protegee; 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 you carte 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 visit that 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 loving him 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 protege. 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 me to 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 and joyous, 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 tells me 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) F{9} K{2}. 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 the calm 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. I have 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 grown desperately 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—"

"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 passed; 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 Jap Bertram, Dick 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 passionately 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 assist 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 blushing 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 glasses, 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 entitled 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 anticipations. 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 superstitious."

"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.

"No, you'll not die unmarried. You will marry Williams," said Billy, looking earnestly into her eyes.

"I shall not."

"If you wish to throw Dic over and marry Williams, you should openly avow it, and not seize this misfortune of Dic's as an excuse."

"Oh, Billy Little, you don't think me capable of that, do you?" answered Rita, reproachfully.

"Do you give me your word you will not marry Williams?" asked Billy, eagerly.

"Yes, I give you my word I will not marry him, if—if I can help it," she answered, and poor Billy collapsed. He took his handkerchief from his pocket to dry the perspiration on his face, although the room was cold, and Rita drew forth her handkerchief to dry her tears.

"Dic loves you, Rita. He is one man out of ten thousand. He is honest, true, and pure-minded. He has sinned, I know; but he has repented. One sin doesn't make a sinner, and repentance is the market price of mercy. I know a great deal of this world, my girl, and of its men and women, and I tell you Dic is as fine a character as I know. I don't know a man that is his equal. Don't let this one fault condemn him and yourself to wretchedness."

"I shall not be wretched," she replied, the picture of woe, "for I don't—don't care for him. I'm surprised, Billy Little, that I do not, and I think less of myself. There must be something wrong about me. I must be wicked when my—my love can turn so easily to indifference. But I do not care for him. He is nothing to me any more. You may be sure I speak the truth and—and although I am glad to have you here, I don't want you to remain if you continue to speak of—of him."

The situation certainly was confusing, and Billy, in a revery, resorted to Maxwelton's braes as a brain clarifier. Soon wild thoughts came to his mind, and wilder hopes arose in his bachelor heart. This girl, whom he had loved for, lo, these many years, was now free of heart and hand. Could it be possible there was hope for him? Pat with this strange thought spoke Rita:—

"You say he is a splendid man, pure and true and honest; but you know, Billy Little, that measured by the standard of your life, he is not. I used to think he was like you, that you had made him like yourself, and I did love him, Billy Little. I did love him. But there is no one like you. You are now my only friend." Tears came to her eyes, and she leaned toward Billy, gently taking his hand between her soft palms. Tumult caused the poor bachelor heart to lose self-control, and out of its fulness to speak:—

"You would not marry me?" he asked. The words were meant as a question, but fortunately Rita understood them as a mere statement of a patent fact, spoken jestingly, so she answered with a laugh:—

"No, of course not. I could not marry you, Billy Little. But I wish you were young; then, do you know, I would make you propose to me. You should not have been born so soon, Billy Little. But if I can't have you for my husband, I'll have you for my second father, and you shall not desert me."

Her jest quickly drove the wild hopes out of the bachelor heart, and Billy trembled when he thought of what he had tried to say. He left the house much agitated, and returned to see Miss Tousy. After a consultation with that lady covering an hour, he went to the tavern and took the stage for home.

Next day, in the midst of Dic's struggles for peace, and at a time when he had almost determined to marry Sukey Yates, a letter came from Miss Tousy, asking him to go to see her. While waiting for the stage, Dic exhibited Miss Tousy's letter, and Billy feigned surprise.

Two or three days previous to the writing of Miss Tousy's letter, Rita had told that sympathetic young lady the story of the trouble with Dic. The confidence was given one afternoon in Miss Tousy's cosey little parlor.

"When is your friend Mr. Bright coming to see you?" asked Miss Tousy. "You are welcome to meet him here if you cannot receive him at home."

"He will not come again at all," answered Rita, closely scanning her hands folded on her lap.

"Why?" asked her friend, in much concern, "has your mother at last forced you to give him up?"

"No, mother knows nothing of it yet—nothing at all. I simply sent his ring back and don't want to—to see him again. Never."

"My dear girl, you are crazy," exclaimed Miss Tousy. "You don't know what you are doing—unless you have grown fond of Mr. Williams; but I can't believe that is true. No girl would think twice of him when so splendid a fellow as Dic—Mr. Bright—was—"

"No, indeed," interrupted Rita, "that can never be true. I would never care for any man as I cared for—for him. But I care for him no longer. It is all over between—between—it is all over."

From the hard expression of the girl's face one might easily have supposed she was speaking the truth; there was no trace of emotion.

"But, Rita! This will never do!" insisted Miss Tousy. "You don't know yourself. You are taking a step that will wreck your happiness. You should also consider him."

"You don't know what he has done," answered Rita, still looking down at her folded hands.

"I don't care what he has done. You did not make yourself love him, and you cannot throw off your love. You may for a time convince yourself that you are indifferent, but you are simply lying to yourself, my dear girl, and you had better lie to any one else—the consequences will be less serious. Never deceive yourself, Rita. That is a deception you can't maintain. You may perhaps deceive all the rest of the world so long as you live—many a person has done it—but yourself—hopeless, Rita, perfectly hopeless."

"I'm not deceiving myself," answered the wilful girl. "You don't know what he has done."

"I don't care," retorted Miss Tousy warmly. "If he were my lover, I—I tell you, Rita Bays, I'd forgive him. I'd keep him. He is one out of a thousand—so big and handsome; so honest, strong, and true."

"But he's not true; that's the trouble," answered Rita, angrily, although there had been a soft, tell-tale radiance in her eyes when Miss Tousy praised him.

"Ah, he has been inveigled into smiling upon another girl," asked Miss Tousy, laughing and taking Rita's hand. "That is the penalty you must pay for having so splendid a lover. Of course other girls will want him. I should like to have him myself—and, Rita, there are lots of girls bold enough or weak enough to seek him outright. You mustn't see those little things. Frequently the best use a woman can make of her eyes is to shut them."

In place of shutting her eyes, Rita began to weep, and Miss Tousy continued:—

"This man loves you and no other, my sweet one. That's the great thing, after all. No girl can steal his heart from you—of that you may be sure."

"But I say you don't know," sobbed Rita. "I will tell you." And she did tell her, stumbling, sobbing, and blushing through the narrative of Dic's unforgivable perfidy.

Miss Tousy whistled in surprise. After a moment of revery she said: "She is trying to steal him, Rita, and she is as bad as she can be. If you will give me your promise that you will never tell, I'll tell you something Sue Davidson told me." Rita promised. "Not long since your brother Tom called on Sue and left his great-coat in the hall. Sue's young sister got to rummaging in Tom's great-coat pockets, for candy, I suppose, and found a letter from this same Sukey Yates to Tom. Sue told me about the letter. It breathed the most passionate love, and implored Tom to save her from the ruin he had wrought. So you see, Dic is not to blame." She paused, expecting her listener to agree with her; but Rita sighed and murmured:—

"He is not excusable because others have been wicked."

"But I tell you I wouldn't let that little wretch steal him from me," insisted Miss Tousy. "That's what she's trying to do, and you're helping her. When she was here I saw plainly that she was infatuated with him, and was bound to win him at any price—at any cost. She had no eyes nor dimples for any one else when he was by; yet he did not notice her—did not see her smiles and dimples. Don't tell me he cares for her. He had eyes for no one but you. Haven't you seen how other girls act toward him? Didn't you notice how Sue Davidson went at him every chance she got?"

"No," answered Rita, still studying her folded hands, and regardless of her tear-stained face.

"I think Sue is the prettiest girl in town, excepting you," continued Miss Tousy, "and if she could not attract him, it would be hopeless for any one else to try."

"Nonsense," murmured Rita, referring to that part of Miss Tousy's remark which applied to herself.

"No, it isn't nonsense, Rita. You are the prettiest girl I ever saw—but no matter. She is pretty enough for me to hate her. She is the sort of pretty girl that all women hate and fear. She obtrudes her prettiness—keeps her attractions always en evidence, as the French say. She moistens her lips to make them tempting, and twitches the right side of her face to work that dimple of hers. She is so attractive that she is not usually driven to seek a man openly; but Dic—I mean Mr. Bright—did not even see her smiles. Every one else did; and I will wager anything you like she has written love-notes to him—real love-notes. He would, of course, be too honorable to tell. He's not the sort of man who would kiss and tell—he is the sort women trust with their favors—but I'll wager I'm right about Sue Davidson." She was right, though Dic's modesty had not permitted him to see Miss D.'s notes in the light Miss Tousy saw them.

"He is not the man," continued Miss Tousy, "to blame a girl for a fault of that sort, even in his own mind, and he would not explain at a woman's expense to save his life. With a man of his sort, the girl is to blame nine times out of ten. I wouldn't give a fippenny bit for a man no other girl wanted. There is a large class of women you don't know yet, Rita. You are too young. The world has a batch of mawkish theories about them, but there are also a few very cold facts kept in the dark,—lodge secrets among the sex. Dic is modest, and modesty in an attractive man is dangerous—the most dangerous thing in the world, Rita. Deliver me from a shy, attractive man, unless he cares a great deal for me. Shyness in a man is apt to make a girl bold."

"It did not make me bold," said Rita, with a touch of fire.

"Not in the least?" asked Miss Tousy, leaning over the girl's lap, looking up into her face and laughing. "Now come, Rita, confess; you're as modest as a girl has any good reason to be, but tell me, didn't you—didn't you do your part? Now confess."

"Well, I may have been a little bold, I admit, a very little—just at—you know, just at one time. I had to be a little—just a little—you see—you know, outspoken, or—you know what I mean. He might not have—oh, you understand how such things happen."

The hands in the lap were growing very interesting during these remarks, and the tear-stained cheeks were very hot and red.

"Yes, yes, dear," said Miss Tousy, leaning forward and kissing the hot cheeks, "yes, yes, sweet one. I know one just has to help them a bit; but that is not boldness, that is charity."

"Since I think about it, perhaps I was," murmured Rita. "I know I have often turned hot all over because of several things I did; but I cared so much for him. I was so young and ignorant. That was over two years ago. I cared so much for him and was all bewildered. Nothing seemed real to me during several months of that time. Part of the time it seemed I was in a nightmare, and again, it was like being in heaven. A poor girl is not a responsible being at such times. She doesn't know what she does nor what she wants; but it's all over now. I ... don't ... care anything ... about ... him now. It's all over." Such a mournful little voice you never heard, and such a mournful little face you never saw. Still, it was all over.

Miss Tousy softly kissed her and said: "Well, well, we'll straighten it all out. There, don't cry, sweet one." But Rita did cry, and found comfort in resting her head on Miss Tousy's sympathetic bosom.

The letter Sue Davidson had found altered Rita's feeling toward Sukey; but it left untouched Dic's sin against herself, and she insisted that she did not care for him, and never, never would forgive. With all her gentleness she had strong nerves, and her spirit, when aroused, was too high to brook patiently the insult Dic had put upon her. Miss Tousy's words had not moved her from her position. Dic was no longer Dic. He was another person, and she could love no man but Dic. She had loved him all her life, and she could love none other. With such poor sophistry did she try to convince herself that she was indifferent. At times she succeeded beyond her most sanguine hope, and tried to drive conviction home by a song. But the song always changed to tears, the tears to anger, anger to sophistry, and all in turn to a dull pain at the heart, making her almost wish she were dead.