A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 23

She then gave the details of the scene with Williams, dwelling proudly upon the fact of her successful retreat to bed, and meekly telling of what she called her jealousy and wickedness. She had asked forgiveness of G.o.d, and now she would ask it of Dic, evidently believing that if G.o.d and Dic would forgive her wicked jealousy, no one else had any right to complain. She was justly proud of the manner in which she had accomplished the retreat movement, and really felt that she was becoming dare-devilish to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled by an undutiful daughter.

"You don't know how wicked I can be," she said, in great earnestness.

"I know how good and beautiful you are," answered Dic. "I know you are the one perfect human being in all the world--and it is useless for me to try to tell you how much you are to me. When I am alone, I am better able to realize what I feel, but I cannot speak it."

"Oh, Dic, is it really true?" asked the girl. "Neither can I tell how--how--" but those emotions which cannot be spoken in words, owing to the poverty of our language, must be expressed otherwise. G.o.d or Satan taught the proper method to Adam and Eve, and it has come down to us by patristic succession, so that we have it to-day in all its pristine glory and expressiveness. Some have spoken against the time-honored custom, and claim to mark its decadence. Connecticut forbade it by law on Sundays, and frowned upon it "Fridays, Sat.u.r.days, and all"; but when it dies, the Lord will whitewash this old earth and let it out as a moon to shine upon happier worlds where the custom still lives.

Rita and Dic did not disturb Mrs. Bays, and she, unconscious of his presence, did not disturb them until Mr. Bays returned.

When Mrs. Bays learned that Dic had been in the kitchen an hour, she felt that the highest attribute of the human mind had been grossly outraged. But her husband was about to ask a favor of Dic, and she limited her expression of dissent to an exhibition of frigid, virtuous dignity, worthy of the king's bench, or Judge Anselm Fisher himself.

When Bays came home, Dic and Rita went into the front room and took their old places on the ciphering log. Mr. and Mrs. Bays sat on the hearth before the fire. Mrs. Bays brought a chair and indicated by a gesture that Rita should occupy it; but with Dic by her side that young lady was brave and did not observe her mother's mute commands. Amid the press of other matters in the kitchen, Rita had not remembered to warn Dic not to lend her father the money. When that fluttering heart of hers was in great trouble or joy, it was apt to be a forgetful little organ, and regret in this instance followed forgetfulness. The regret came after she was seated with Dic on the hearth log, and, being in her mother's presence, dared not speak.

Mr. Bays was genuinely glad to see Dic, and listened with delight to the narrative of his trip. When an opportunity arose, Tom, Sr., said:--

"I have a fine opportunity to go into business with Jim Fisher. I want to borrow three thousand dollars, and I wonder if you will be willing to lend me your money?"

"Yes," answered Dic, eagerly, "I am glad to lend it to you." He welcomed the proposition as a blind man would welcome light. He was glad to help his lifelong friend; but over and above that motive Mr. Bays's request for money seemed to mean Rita. It certainly could mean nothing else; and if the family moved to Indianapolis, it would mean Rita in the cosey log-cabin up the river at once. Dic and his mother lived together, and, even without Rita, the log house was a delightful home, warm in winter and cool in summer; but the beautiful girl would trans.m.u.te the log walls to jasper, the hewed floors to beaten gold, and would create a paradise on the banks of Blue. The thought almost made him dizzy. He had never before felt so near to possessing her.

"Indeed I will," he repeated.

"I will pay you the highest rate of interest," said Mr. Bays.

"I want no interest, and you may repay the loan in one or ten years, as you choose."

Rita, unable to repress her desire to speak, exclaimed: "Oh, Dic, please don't," but Mrs. Bays gazed sternly over her gla.s.ses at her daughter and suppressed the presumptuous, forward girl. The old lady, seeing Dic's eagerness to lend the money, seized the opportunity to lessen her obligation in the transaction and to make it appear that she was conferring a favor upon Dic. If she and Mr. Bays would condescend to borrow his money, she determined that Dic should fully appreciate the honor they were doing him. Therefore, after a formulative pause, she spoke to her daughter:--

"Mind your own affairs. Girls should be seen and not heard. Some girls are seen altogether too much. Your father and Dic will arrange this affair between themselves without your help. It is purely an affair of business. Dic, of course, wishes to invest his money; and if your father, after due consideration, is willing to help him, I am sure he should feel obliged to us, and no doubt he will. He would be an ungrateful person indeed if he did not. I am sure your father's note is as good as the bank. He pays his just debts. He is my husband and could not do otherwise. No man lives who has not at all times received his dues from us to the last penny. If a penny is coming to us, we want it.

If we owe one, we pay it. My father, Judge Anselm Fisher, was the same way. His maxim was, 'Justice to all and confusion to sinners.' He died beholden to no man. Neither have I ever been beholden to any one. Dic is fortunate, indeed, in finding so good an investment for his money, at interest; very fortunate indeed."

"I don't want interest," said the too eager Dic.

"Indeed, that is generous in you," returned Mrs. Bays, though she was determined that Dic should not succeed in casting the burden of an obligation upon her shoulders. "But of course you know your money will be safe, and that is a great deal in these days of weak banks and robbers. If I were in Mr. Bays's place, I should pause and consider the matter carefully and prayerfully before a.s.suming responsibility for anybody's money. If it should be stolen from him, he, and not you, would lose it. I think it is very kind in him to undertake the responsibility."

That phase of the question slightly dimmed its rosiness; but Dic still hoped that lending the money would make smoother his path to Rita. At first he had not foreseen that he, and not the Bayses, would rest under an obligation. To the girl the lending of this money meant Indianapolis, Williams, and separation from Dic.

THE TOURNAMENT

CHAPTER X

THE TOURNAMENT

Mr. Bays, rash man that he was, without care or prayer, accepted Dic's loan and was thankful, despite the good wife's effort to convince him he was conferring a favor. Her remarks had been much more convincing to Dic than to her husband. The latter could not entirely throw off the feeling that Dic was doing him a favor.

The money was to be delivered and the note executed in ten days, Mrs.

Margarita insisting that Dic should be responsible for his own money until it was needed by her husband.

"He certainly would not ask us to be responsible for his money till we can use it," she observed, in an injured tone, to her daughter. One would have supposed from her att.i.tude that an imposition was being put upon her, though she, herself, being accustomed to bear the burdens of others, would bow her neck beneath this yoke and accept the responsibility of Dic's money. She not only convinced herself that such was the proper view to take of the transaction, but succeeded fairly well in impressing even Rita with that belief. Such an achievement required generalship of the highest order; but Mrs. Bays possessed that rare quality to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled.

The loan was to bear no interest, Dic hoping to heighten the sense of obligation in Mr. Bays. He succeeded; but of course the important member of the family still felt that Dic was beholden to her. She could not, however, with either safety or justice, exclude from her house the man who was to lend the much-needed money. While she realized the great favor she was conferring on Dic, and fully understood the nature of the burden she was taking upon herself solely for his sake, she had no thought of shrinking from her duty;--not she. The money had not been delivered, and Dic, if offended, might change his mind and foolishly refuse her sacrifice. It might not be entirely safe to presume too largely upon his sense of obligation--some persons are devoid of grat.i.tude--until the money was in hand. For these reasons Dic was tolerated, and during the next ten days spent his evenings with Rita, though mother and father Bays did not migrate to the kitchen, in accordance with well-established usage on Blue, and as they had done when Williams came a-wooing. Dic cared little for the infringement, and felt that old times had come again. Rita, growing bold, braved her mother's wrath, and continued each evening to give him a moment of his own. One evening it would be a drink from the well that she wanted.

Again, it was a gourdful of sh.e.l.l-barks from the cellar under the kitchen, whence she, of course, was afraid to fetch them alone. The most guileless heart will grow adroit under certain well-known conditions; and even Rita, the simplest of girls, easily made opportunities to give Dic these little moments from which she came back rosy, while that lucky young man was far from discontented.

Rita paid each evening for Dic's moment when the door closed on him, and continued payment during the next day till his return. But she considered the moment a great bargain at the price, continued her purchases, and paid the bills on demand to incarnate Justice. The bills were heavy, and had not Rita been encased by an armor of trusty steel, wrought from the links of her happiness, her soft, white form would have been pierced through and through by the tough, ashen shafts of her mother's relentless cruelty.

We are apt to feel pain and suffering comparatively. To one who has experienced a great agony, smaller troubles seem trivial. Rita had experienced her great agony, and her mother's thrusts were but needle p.r.i.c.ks compared with it.

Arrangements were quickly made for moving to Indianapolis, and at the end of ten days all was ready for the money to be delivered. Dic again asked for Rita, and Mr. Bays was for delivering the girl at once. His new venture at Indianapolis had stimulated his sense of self-importance, and he insisted, with a temerity never before dared, that Dic, whom he truly loved, should have the daughter whom they each loved. But the Chief Justice would agree to nothing more than an extension of the armistice, and graciously consented that Dic might visit the _family_ at Indianapolis once in a while.

After Dic had agreed to lend the money, he at once notified Billy Little, in whose strong-box it was stored. Dic, in the course of their conversation, expressed to Billy the sense of obligation he felt to the Bayses.

"I declare," vowed Billy, "that old woman is truly great. When she goes to heaven, she will convince St. Peter that she is doing him a favor by entering the pearly gates. Neither will she go in unless everything suits her. There is not another like her. Archimedes said he could lift the world with a lever if he had a fulcrum. Undiluted egotism is the fulcrum. But one must actually believe in one's self to be effective.

One cannot impose a sham self-faith upon the world. Only the man who believes his own lie can lie convincingly. Egad! Dic, it would have been beautiful to see that self-sufficient old harridan attempting to convince you that she was conferring a favor by taking your money. You will probably never see a fippenny bit of it again. And without interest! Jove! I say it was beautiful. Had she wanted your liver, I suppose you would have thanked her for accepting it. She is a wonder."

These remarks opened Dic's eyes and convinced him that the New York trip had not effaced all traces of unsophistication.

In those days of weak strong-boxes and numerous box-breakers, men hesitated to a.s.sume the responsibility of taking another's gold for safe-keeping. There could be no profit to Billy Little in Dic's gold. He took it to keep for him only because he loved him. The sum total of Billy's wealth, aside from his stock of goods valued at a thousand dollars, consisted of notes, secured by mortgages, amounting to four thousand dollars. Of this sum he had lent five hundred dollars to Dic, who had repaid him in gold. The money had been placed in Billy Little's strong-box with Dic's twenty-six hundred dollars. Each sum of gold was contained in a canvas shot-bag. Of course news of Dic's wealth had spread throughout the town and country, and had furnished many a pleasant hour of conversation among persons with whom topics were scarce.

Late one night Billy Little's slumbers were disturbed by a noise in the store, and his mind at once turned to the gold. He rose quickly, seized his shot-gun, and opened the door leading into the storeroom just in time to see two men climb out through the open window near the post-office boxes. Billy ran to the window and saw the men a hundred yards away. He climbed out and hurried in pursuit, but the men were soon out of sight, and Billy returned shivering to the store. He could see by the dim light from the window that the doors of his strong-box were standing open. There was no need to examine the box. Billy well knew the gold had vanished. He shut the iron doors and went back to his room, poked the fire, seated himself at the piano, and for the next hour ran through his favorite repertoire, closing the concert with "Annie Laurie." Then he went to bed and slept like an untroubled child till morning.

The safe had been unlocked by means of a false key. There were no visible signs of robbery, and Billy Little determined to tell no one of his loss. The first question that confronted him in the morning was, what should be done about the loss of Dic's gold? That proposition he quickly settled. He went across the road to the inn, got his breakfast, returned to his room, donned his broadcloth coat, made thirty years before in London, took from his strong-box notes to the amount of twenty-six hundred dollars, and left for Indianapolis by the noon stage.

At Indianapolis he sold the notes and brought back Dic's gold. This he kept in his iron box during the day and under his pillow at night.

The household effects of the Bays family were placed in two wagons to be taken to Indianapolis. Dic had offered to drive one team, and Tom was to drive the other. Mr. Bays had preceded the family by a day or two; but before leaving he and Dic had gone to Billy Little's store for the money. Dic, of course, knew nothing of the robbery. Billy had privately advised his young friend to lend the money payable on demand.

"You should buy a farm when a good opportunity offers," said he. "Land hereabouts will increase in value a hundred per cent in ten years. You should not tie up your money for a long time."

Billy made the same representation to Bays, and that gentleman, eager to get the money on any terms, agreed with him. Little's real, though unspoken, reason was this: he felt that if Dic held a debt against Bays, collectible upon demand, it would be a protection against Mrs.

Margarita's too keen sense of justice, and might prove an effective help in winning Rita from the icy dragoness. Therefore, the note was drawn payable on demand. When Mrs. Bays learned that fact, she named over to her spouse succinctly the various species of fool of which he was the composite representative. The satisfaction she felt in unbosoming herself was her only reward, for the note remained collectible on demand.

The weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. So it had been determined that Rita and her mother should travel to Indianapolis by the stage coach. But when the wagons were ready to start, at sun-up, Mrs. Bays being in bed, Rita basely deserted that virtuous woman and climbed over the front wheel to the seat beside Dic.

She left a note for her mother, saying that she would go with the wagon to save the seven shilling stage fare. She knew she was making a heavy purchase of "moments," and was sure she would be called upon for instant payment that night when she should meet her mother. She was willing to pay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of Phoebus would have been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereon she rode.

The sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filled with glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed Blue on the ice at the ford below Bays's barn. The horses' breath came from their nostrils like steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozen snow, seemed to laugh for joy. It would have been a sad moment for Rita had she not been with Dic; but with him by her side she did not so much as turn her head for one backward look upon the home she was leaving.

Dic wore a coat made from mink pelts which he had taken in the hunt, and he so wrapped and enveloped Rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes that the cold could not come near her. He covered her head, mouth, nose, and cheeks with a great fur cap of his own; but he left her eyes exposed, saying, "I must be able to see them, you know." As he fastened the curtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer from the eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer and the mercury freezing in the bulb.

If I were to tell you all the plans that were formulated upon that wagon while it jolted and b.u.mped over the frozen ruts of the Michigan road; if I were to write down here all the words of hope and confidence in the fickle future; if I were to tell you of the glances, touches, and words of love that were given and spoken between sun-up and sun-down upon this chariot of the G.o.ds--I will say of the blind G.o.d--I should never finish writing, nor would you ever finish reading.

It was:--

"You will write to me every day?"