A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 25

Tom lied about the Tousy girls. They were splendid girls, and their laughter had not been at Dic's country ways. In fact, the eldest Miss Tousy had asked Tom the name of his handsome friend.

Tom left Rita, and her tears fell unheeded as she finished the after-dinner work. For ten days she had looked forward to this Sunday, and after its tardy arrival it was full of grief, despite her joy at seeing Dic.

At two o'clock Williams left, and the remainder of the afternoon richly compensated the girl for her earlier troubles. Tom went out, and about four o'clock Mr. Bays went for a walk while Justice was sleeping upstairs. During the father's absence, Dic and Rita had a delightful half hour to themselves, during which her tongue made ample amends for its recent silence, and talked such music to Dic as he had never before heard. She had, during the past ten days, made memoranda of the subjects upon which she wished to speak, fearing, with good reason, that she would forget them all, in the whirl of her joy, if she trusted to memory. So the memoranda were brought from a pocket, and the subjects taken up in turn. To Dic that half hour was well worth the ride to Indianapolis and home again. To her it was worth ten times ten days of waiting, and the morning with its wretched dinner was forgotten.

Mrs. Margarita, stricken by Tom's words, had been thinking all the afternoon of the note payable on demand, and had grown to fear the consequences of her conduct at dinner-time. She had hardly grown out of the feeling that Dic was a boy, but his prompt resentment of her cold reception awakened her to the fact that he might soon become a dangerous man. Rita's show of rebellion also had an ominous look. She was nearing the dangerous age of eighteen and could soon marry whom she chose. Dic might carry her off, despite the watchfulness of open-eyed Justice, and cause trouble with the note her husband had so foolishly given. All these considerations moved Margarita, the elder, to gentleness, and when she came downstairs she said:--

"Dic, I am surprised and deeply hurt. We always treat you without ceremony, as one of the family, and I didn't mean that I didn't want you to stay for dinner. I did want you, and you must stay for supper."

Dic's first impulse was to refuse the invitation; but the pleading in Rita's eyes was more than he could resist, and he remained.

How different was the supper from the dinner! Rita was as talkative as one could ask a girl to be, and Mrs. Bays would have referred to the relative virtues of hearing and seeing girls, had she not been in temporary fear of the demand note. Tom was out for supper with Williams.

Mr. Bays told all he knew; and even the icy dragoness, thawed by the genial warmth, unbent to as great a degree as the daughter of Judge Anselm Fisher might with propriety unbend, and was actually pleasant--for her. After supper Dic insisted that Mrs. Bays should go to the front room, and that he should be allowed, as in olden times, when he was a boy, to a.s.sist Rita in "doing up" the after-supper work. So he, wearing an ap.r.o.n, stood laughingly by Rita's side drying the dishes while she washed them. There were not enough dishes by many thousand, and when the paltry few before them had been dried and placed in a large pan, Dic, while Rita's back was turned, poured water over them, and, of course, they all had to be dried again. Rita laughed, and began her task anew.

"Who would have thought," she whispered, shrugging her shoulders, "that washing dishes could be such pleasant work."

Dic acknowledged his previous ignorance on the subject. He was for interrupting the work semi-occasionally, but when the interruptions became too frequent, she would say: "Don't, Dic," and laughingly push him away. She was not miserly. She was simply frugal, and Dic had no good reason to complain. After every dish had been washed and dried many times, Rita started toward her torture chamber, the front room.

At the door she whispered to Dic:--

"Mr.--that man is in there. He will remain all evening, and I want you to stay till he goes."

"Very well," responded Dic. "I don't like that sort of thing, but if you wish, I'll stay till morning rather than leave him with you."

Williams was on hand, and as a result Rita had no words for any one.

There was no glorious fireplace in the room, and consequently no cosey ciphering log. In its place was an iron stove, which, according to Rita, made the atmosphere "stuffy."

Toward nine o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Bays retired, and the "sitting-out"

tournament began. The most courteous politeness was a.s.sumed by the belligerent forces, in accordance with established custom in all tournaments.

The great clock in the corner struck ten, eleven, and twelve o'clock.

Still the champions were as fresh as they had been at nine. No one could foretell the victor, though any one could easily have pointed out the poor victim. After ten o'clock the conversation was conducted almost entirely by Williams and Dic, with a low monosyllable now and then from Rita when addressed. She, poor girl, was too sleepy to talk, even to Dic. Soon after twelve o'clock the knight from Blue, pitying her, showed signs of surrender; but she at once awoke and mutely gave him to understand that she would hold him craven should he lower his lance point while life lasted. The clock struck one.

The champions had exhausted all modern topics and were beginning on old Rome. Dic wondered what would be the hour when they should reach Greece and Egypt in their backward flight. But after the downfall of Rome, near the hour of two, Sir Roger was unhorsed, and went off to his castle and to bed. Then Rita bade Dic good-by, after exacting from him a solemn promise to return the next Sunday.

Rita thought Dic's victory was a good omen, and drew much comfort from it. She tried to lie awake to nurse her joy, but her eyes were so heavy that she fell asleep in the midst of her prayer.

Dic saddled his horse and started home. The sharp, crisp air was delicious. The starlit sky was a canopy of never ceasing beauty, and the song in his heart was the ever sweet song of hope. The four hours'

ride seemed little more than a journey of as many minutes; and when he stabled his horse at home, just as the east was turning gray and the sun-blinded stars were blinking, he said to himself:--

"A fifty-two-mile ride and twenty-four hours of happiness,--antic.i.p.ation, realization, and memory,--cheap!"

He slept for two or three hours and hunted all day long. Tuesday's stage brought a letter from Rita, and it is needless to speak of its electrifying effect on Dic. There was a great deal of "I" and "me" and "you" in the letter, together with frequent repet.i.tions; but tautology, under proper conditions, may have beauties of its own, not at all to be despised.

Dic went to town Tuesday evening and sat before Billy Little's fire till ten o'clock, telling our worthy little friend of recent events. They both laughed over the "sitting-out" tournament.

"It begins to look as if you would get her," remarked Billy, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. He was intensely jealous of Williams, and was eager to help Dic in any manner possible.

"I hope you are right, Billy Little," replied Dic. "When persons agree as do Rita and I, there should be a law against outside interference."

"There is such a law," answered Billy--"G.o.d's law, but most persons have greater respect for a legislative statute."

"I didn't know you were religious," said Dic.

"Of course I am. Every man with any good in him is religious. One doesn't have to be a Methodist, a Baptist, or a Roman Catholic to be religious. But bless my soul, Dic, I don't want to preach." He leaned forward looking into the fire, took his pipe from his mouth and, as usual, hummed Maxwelton's braes.

"If Rita were a different girl, my task would be easier," observed Dic.

"She is too tender-hearted and affectionate to see faults in any one who is near to her. Notwithstanding her mother's cruelty and hypocrisy, Rita loves her pa.s.sionately and believes she is the best and greatest of women. She stands in fear of her, too, and when the diabolical old fiend quotes Scripture, no matter how irrelevantly, or has heart trouble, the girl loses self-control and would give up her life if her mother wanted it. Rita is a coward, too; but that is a sweet fault in a woman, and I would not have her different in any respect. I believe Mrs. Bays has greater respect for me since I lent the money. I could see the good effect immediately."

"Her respect would not have been so perceptible had you taken a note payable in one or two years. Hold that demand note as a club over the old woman, and perhaps you will get the girl."

"Was that your reason for advising me to take the note payable on demand?" asked Dic.

"It was one of my reasons--perhaps the chief one."

"Then I'll write to Mr. Bays asking him to draw a new note payable in two years," said Dic.

Billy took a small piece of paper, wrote a line or two, and handed it to Dic, saying:--

"Sign this and deliver it to Williams when you take Bays's note due in two years."

The slip read, "Pay on demand to Roger Williams, Esq., one Rita Bays."

Dic laughed nervously, and said: "I guess you're right, as usual. After all, it is a shame that I should take her to my poor log-cabin when she might have a mansion in Boston and all that money can buy. If I were an unselfish man, I should release my claims to her." A silence of several moments ensued, during which Billy drew the leather trunk from under the bed and took a fresh letter from the musty package we have already seen. He drew his chair near to the candle, slipped the letter from its envelope, and slowly read its four pages to himself. After gazing at the fire for several minutes in meditation he said:--

"I received a Christmas gift, Dic. It came from England. I got it this morning. It is the miniature of an old friend. I have not seen or heard from her in thirty years. I also have a letter. If you wish, you may be the only person in all the world, save myself, to read it."

"Indeed, I'll be glad--if you wish me to read it. You know I am deeply interested in all that touches you."

"I believe I know," answered Billy, handing him the letter across the table. Dic read to himself:--

----, ENGLAND, 18

"MY DEAR FRIEND: Each Christmas day for many years have I written a letter to you, but none of them have ever been seen by any eyes save my own. I have always intended sending them to you, but my courage upon each occasion has failed me, and none of them has ever reached you. This one I mean to send. I wonder if I shall do so?

How many years is it, my friend, since that day, so full of pain,--ah, so full of pain,--when I returned the ring you had given me, and you released me to another. In your letter you made pretence that you did not suffer, knowing that I would suffer for the sake of your pain. But you did not deceive me. I knew then, as I know now, that you released me because you supposed the position and wealth which were offered me would bring happiness. But, my friend, that was a mistaken generosity. Life has been rich in many ways. I have wealth and exalted position, and am honored and envied by many. My husband is a good, kind man. I have no children and am thankful in lacking them. A woman willingly bears children only for the man she loves. But, oh, my friend, the weariness that never ceases, the yearning that never stops, the dull pain that never really eases, have turned me gray, and I am old before my time. I fear the longing and the pain are sinful, and nightly I pray G.o.d to take them from my heart. At times He answers, in a degree, my prayers, and I almost forget; but again, He forsakes me, and at those moments my burden seems heavier than I can bear. One may easily endure if one has a bright past or a happy future to look upon. One may live over and over again one's past joys, or may draw upon a hopeful future; but a dead, ashen past, a barren present, and a hopeless future bring us at times to rebellion against an all-wise G.o.d because He has given us life. Time is said to heal all wounds; but it has failed with me, and they, I fear, will ache so long as I live. I suppose you, too, are old, though you will always be young to me, and doubtless the snow is also in your hair. I, sinful one that I am, send you with this letter, my miniature and a lock of my hair, that you may realize the great change that has been wrought in me by time. This letter I surely will post. May it take to you in the wilderness a part of my wretchedness, for so selfish am I that I would take comfort in knowing that I do not suffer alone. I retract the last sentence and in its place ask, not that you suffer, but that you do not forget. In health I am blessed beyond my deserts, and I hope the same comfort abides with you. You will hear from me never again. I have allowed myself this one delightful moment of sin, and G.o.d, I know, will give me strength against another. I wish you all the good that one human being can wish another.

"Regretfully, fondly, farewell.

"RITA."

Dic, almost in tears, returned the letter to Billy Little, and that worthy man, wishing to rob the scene of its sentimentality, said:--

"She says she supposes my hair is gray! She doesn't know I am as bald as a gourd. Here is her miniature. I'll not send her mine; she might laugh."

Dic took the picture and saw a sweet, tender face, fringed by white curls, and aglow with soft, brown eyes.