A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 16

"I have not been expecting you would," answered Billy. "But what are you going to do about the Chief Justice?"

"I don't know. What would you do?"

Billy Little paused before answering. "If you knew what mistakes I have made in such matters, you would not ask advice of me."

Dic waited, hoping that Billy would amplify upon the subject of his mistakes, but he waited in vain. "Nevertheless," he said, "I want your advice."

"I have none to give," responded Billy, "unless it is to suggest in a general way that in dealing with women boldness has always been considered the proper article. Humility is sweet in a beautiful woman, but it makes a man appear sheepish. The first step toward success with all cla.s.ses of persons is to gain their respect. Humility in a man won't gain the respect of a hound pup. Face the world bravely. Egad! St.

George's little affair with the fiery dragon grows pale when one thinks of the icy dragoness of duty and justice you must overthrow before you can rescue Rita. But go at the old woman as if you had fought dragons all your life. Tell her bluntly that you want Rita; that you must and will have her, and that it is not in the power of duty and justice to keep her from you. Be bold, and you will probably get the girl, together with her admiration and grat.i.tude. I guess there is no doubt they like it--boldness. But Lord bless your soul, Dic, I don't know what they like. I think the best thing you can do is to go to New York with Sampson, the horse-dealer. He sails out of here in a few days, and if you will go with him he will pay you five hundred dollars and will allow you to take a few horses on your own account. You will double your money if you take good horses."

"Do you really think he would pay me five hundred dollars?" asked Dic.

"Yes, I believe he will. I'll see him about it."

"I believe I'll go," said Dic. "That is, I'll go if--"

"If Rita will let you, I suppose you are going to say," remarked Billy.

"We'll name the new firm of horse-buyers Sampson and Sampson; for if you are not mindful this gentle young Delilah will shear you."

"I promised her I would not go. I cannot break my word. If she will release me, I will go, and will thank you with all my heart. Billy Little, you have done so much for me that I must--I must--"

"There you go. 'Deed if I don't leave you if you keep it up. You have four or five good horses, and I'll loan you five hundred dollars with which you may buy a dozen or fifteen more. You may take twenty head of horses on your own account, and should make by the trip fifteen hundred or two thousand dollars, including your wages. Why, Dic, you will be rich. Unless I am mistaken, wealth is greater even than boldness with icy dragonesses."

"Not with Rita."

"You don't need help of any sort with her," said Billy. "Poor girl, she is winged for all time. You may be bold or humble, rich or poor; it will be all one to her. But you want to get her without a fight. You don't know what a fight with a woman like the Chief Justice means.

Carnage and destruction to beat Napoleon. I believe if you had two thousand dollars in gold, there would be no fight. Good sinews of war are great peace-makers."

"I know Rita will release me if I insist," said Dic.

"I'm sure she will," responded his friend.

"I will go," cried Dic, heroically determined to break the tender shackles of Rita's welding.

"Now you are a man again," said Billy. "You may cause her to cry a bit, but she'll like you none the less for that. If tears caused women to hate men, there would be a sudden stoppage in population." Billy sat contemplative for a moment with his finger tips together. "Men are brutes"--another pause--"but they salt the earth while women sweeten it.

Personally, I would rather sweeten the earth than salt it; but a sweet man is like a pokeberry--sugarish, nauseating and unhealthful. My love for sweetness has made me a failure."

"You are not a failure, Billy Little. You are certainly of the salt of the earth," insisted Dic.

"A man fails when he does not utilize his capabilities to their limit,"

said Billy, philosophically. "He is a success when he accomplishes all he can. The measure of the individual is the measure of what should const.i.tute his success. His capabilities may be small or great; if he but use them all, he is a success. A fishing worm may be a great success as a fishing worm, but a total failure as a mule. Bless me, what a sermon I have preached about nothing. I fear I am growing garrulous,"

and Billy looked into the fire and hummed Maxwelton's braes.

That evening Dic went to call on Rita and made no pretence of wishing to see Tom. That worthy young man had served his purpose, and could never again be a factor in Dic's life or courtship. Mrs. Bays received Dic coldly; but Mr. Bays, in a half-timid manner, was very cordial. Dic paid no heed to the coldness, and, after talking on the porch with the family for a few minutes, boldly asked Rita to walk across the yard to the log by the river. Rita gave her mother a frightened glance and hurried away with Dic before Justice could a.s.sert itself, and the happy pair sought the beloved sycamore divan by the river bank.

"In the midst of all my happiness," began Rita, "I'm very unhappy because I, in place of Patsy Clark, did not liberate you. I always intended to tell the truth. You must have known that I would."

"I never even hoped that you would not. I knew that when the time should come you would not obey me," returned Dic.

"In all else, Dic, in all else." There was the sweet, all-conquering humility of which Billy had spoken.

"In all else, Rita? Do you mean what you say?"

"Yes."

"I will put you to the test at once. For your sake and my own I should go with Sampson to New York, and I want you to release me from my promise. I would not ask you did I not feel that it is an opportunity such as I may never have again. It is now July; I shall be back by the middle of November, and then, Rita, you will go home with me, won't you?" For answer the girl gently put her hand in his. "And you will release me from my promise?"

She nodded her head, and after a short silence added: "I fear I have no will of my own. I borrow all from you. I cannot say 'no' when you wish 'yes'; I cannot say 'yes' when you wish 'no.' I fear you will despise me, I am so cheap; but I am as I am, and it is your fault that I have so many faults. You have made me what I am. Will it not be wonderful, Dic, if I, who clung to your finger in my babyhood, should be led by your hand from my cradle to--to my grave? I have never in all my life, Dic, known any real help but yours--and some from Billy Little. So you see my dependence upon you is excusable, and you cannot think less of me because I am so weak." She looked up to him with a tearful smile in which the past and the future contributed each its touch of sadness.

"Rita, come to the house this instant!" called Mrs. Bays (to Dic her voice sounded like a broken string in Billy Little's piano).

Dic and Rita went to the house, and Mrs. Bays, pointing majestically to a chair, said to her daughter:--

"Now, you sit there, and if you move, off to bed you go." The threat was all-sufficient.

Dic sat upon the edge of the porch thinking of St. George and the dragon, and tried to work his courage up to the point of attack. He talked ramblingly for a while to Mr. Bays; then, believing his courage in proper form, he turned to that gentleman's better nine-tenths and boldly began:--

"I want Rita, Mrs. Bays. I know I am not worthy of her" (here the girl under discussion flashed a luminous glance of flat contradiction at the speaker), "and I know I am asking a great deal, but--but--" But the boldness had evaporated along with the remainder of what he had to say, for with Dic's first words Justice dropped her knitting to her lap, took off her gla.s.ses, and gazed at the unfortunate malefactor with an injured, fixed, and icy stare. Dic retired in disorder; but he soon rallied his forces and again took up the battle.

"I'm going to New York in a few days," he said. "I will not be home till November. I have Rita's promise. I can, if I must, be satisfied with that; but I should like your consent before I go." Brave words, those, to the dragoness of Justice. But she did not even look at the presumptuous St. George. She was, as Justice should be, blind. Likewise she appeared to be deaf.

"May I have your consent, Mr. Bays?" asked Dic, after a long pause, turning to Rita's father.

"Yes," he replied, "yes, Dic, I will be glad--" Justice at the moment recovered sight and hearing, and gazed stonily at its mate. The mate, after a brief pause, continued in a different tone:--

"That is, I don't care. You and mother fix it between you. I don't know anything about such matters." Mr. Bays leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and examined his feet as if he had just discovered them. After a close scrutiny he continued:--

"Rita's the best girl that ever lived. I don't care where you look, there's not another like her in all the world. She has never caused me a moment of pain--" Rita moved her chair to her father's side and took his hand--"she has brought me nothing but happiness, and I would--" He ceased speaking, and no one has ever known what Mr. Bays "would," for at that interesting point in his remarks his worthy spouse interrupted him--

"Nothing brings you pain. You shirk it and throw it all on me. Lord knows the girl has brought trouble enough to me. I have toiled and worked and suffered for her. I bear the burdens of this house, and if my daughter is better than other girls,--I don't say she is, and I don't say she isn't,--but if she is better than other girls, I say it is because I have done my duty by her."

Truth compels me to admit that she had done her duty toward the girl with a strenuous sincerity that often amounted to cruelty, but in the main she had done her best for Rita.

Dic had unintentionally turned the tide of battle on Mr. Bays, and that worthy sufferer, long used to the anguish of defeat, and dead to the shame of cowardice, rose from his chair and beat a hasty retreat to his old-time sanctuary, the barn. Dic did not retreat; single-handed and alone, he took lance in hand and renewed the attack with adroit thrusts of flattery and coaxing. After many bouts a compromise was reached and an armistice declared between the belligerent powers until Dic should return from New York. This armistice was virtually a surrender of the Bays forces, so that evening when Dic started home Rita accompanied him to the gate beneath the dark shadow of a drooping elm, and the gate's the place for "a' that and a' that."

Next morning bright and early Dic went to town to see Sampson, the horse-dealer. He found him sitting on the inn porch.

"Well, you're going to take the horses for me, after all?" asked that worthy descendant of one of the tribes.

"Billy Little said you would give me five hundred dollars. That is a very large sum. You first offered me only one hundred."

"Yes," returned Sampson; "I had a talk with Little. Horses are in great demand in New York, and I want an intelligent man who can hurry the drove through to Harrisburg, where I'll meet them. If we get them to New York in advance of the other dealers, we should make a profit of one hundred dollars a head on every good horse. You will have two other men with you, but I will put you in charge. Don't speak of the five hundred dollars you're to have; the others are to receive only fifty dollars each."

The truth is, Billy had contributed four hundred dollars of the sum Dic was to receive, and four hundred dollars was one-tenth of all Billy's worldly goods.

Dic completed his arrangements with Sampson, which included the privilege of taking twenty horses on his own account, and then, as usual, went to see Billy Little.

"Well, Billy Little," said Dic, joyfully, "I'm going. I've closed with Sampson. He gives me five hundred dollars, and allows me to take twenty horses of my own. I ought to get fine young horses at twenty-five dollars a head."