A Forest Hearth: A Romance of Indiana in the Thirties Part 27

"No, of course he ain't," replied Tom. "Do you think I'd take him out calling, with such clothes as he wears, to see any of the girls?"

"I hope not," answered Rita, struggling with a smile.

"No, sir," insisted Tom, "and if I lose my place because you mistreat Williams on Dic's account, he shan't come into this house. Do you understand? If he does, I'll kick him out."

"You kick Dic!" returned Rita, laughing. "You would be afraid to say 'boo' to him. Tom, I should be sorry to see you after you had tried to kick Dic."

"Well, I'll tell you now, Sis," said Tom, threateningly, "you treat Williams right. If you don't, your big, jakey friend will suffer."

"It is on Dic's capital that father is making so much money," responded Rita. "Had it not been for him we would still be on Blue. I certainly wish we were back there."

"Your father will soon pay Dic his money," said Mrs. Bays, solemnly, "and then we will be free to act as we wish."

"The debt to Dic is no great thing," said Tom. "The firm owes Williams nearly four times that amount, and he isn't a man who will stand much foolishness. Father is not making so much money, either, as you think for, and the first thing you know, with your smartness, you will ruin him and me both, if you keep on making a fool of yourself. But that wouldn't hurt you. You don't think of n.o.body but yourself."

"That has always been Rita's chief fault," remarked the Chief Justice, sitting in solemn judgment upon a case that was not before her. Poor Rita was beginning to feel that she was a monster of selfishness. Her father came feebly to her defence.

"I don't believe the girl lives," said Thomas, Sr., "who is less selfish than Rita. But Fisher and I do owe Williams a great deal of money, and are not making as much as we did at first. The crops failed last summer, and collections are hard. Williams has been pressing for money, and I hope all the family will treat him well, for he is the kind of man who might take out his spite upon me, for the sake of getting even with somebody else."

Rita's heart sank. Her father, though a weak va.s.sal, had long been her only ally.

Had Williams not been a suitor for her hand, Rita would have found him agreeable; and if her heart had been free, he might have won it. So long as he maintained the att.i.tude of friend and did not conflict with Dic's claims, he was well received; but when he became a lover--a condition difficult to refrain from--she almost hated and greatly feared him.

Despite her wretchedness, she accepted his visits and invitations for her father's sake, and at times felt that she was under the spell of a cruel wizard from Boston. With all these conditions, the battle of Dic's wooing, though he held the citadel,--Rita's heart,--was by no means an even fight. There were other causes operating that might eventually rout him, even from that citadel.

One evening, while sitting before Billy Little's fire, Dic's campaign was discussed in detail. The young man said:--

"Rita and I are to be married soon after I return from New York. If her mother consents, well and good; if she refuses, we will bear up manfully under her displeasure and ignore it. I have often thought of your remark about Mrs. Bays as a mother-in-law."

"She certainly would be ideal," responded Billy. "But I hope you will get the girl. She's worth all the trouble the old lady can make."

"Why do you say 'hope'?" asked Dic. "I'm sure of getting her. Why, Billy Little, if I were to lose that girl, I believe I should go mad."

"No, you wouldn't," returned his friend. "You would console yourself with the dimpler."

"Why, Billy Little, you are crazy--excuse me--but you don't understand,"

expostulated Dic. "For me, all that is worth possessing in the whole big universe is concentrated in one small bit of humanity. Her little body encompa.s.ses it all. Sukey Yates could be nothing to me, even though I cared nothing for Rita. She has too many other friends, as she calls them, and probably is equally generous to all."

"If you care for Rita, you should remain away from Sukey," remarked Billy. "She may be comprehensive in her affections, and she may have been--to state it mildly--overtender at times; but when a girl of her ardent temperament falls in love, she becomes dangerous, because she is really very attractive to the eye."

"I don't go there often, and I'll take your advice and remain away. I have feared the danger you speak of, but--"

"Speak out, Dic; you may trust me," said Billy. Dic continued:--

"I don't like to speak of a girl as I was going to speak of Sukey, but I'll explain. I have, of course, been unable to explain to Rita, and I'm a selfish brute to go to Sukey's at all. Rita has never complained, but there is always a troubled look in her eyes when she jestingly speaks of Sukey as my 'other girl.' Well, it's this way: Sukey often comes to see mother, who prefers her to Rita, and if she comes in the evening, of course I take her home. I believe I have not deliberately gone over to see her three times in all my life. Sometimes I ride home from church with her and spend part of the evening. Sukey is wonderfully pretty, and her health is so good that at times she looks like a little nymph. She is, in a way, entertaining too. As you say, she appeals to the eye, and when she grows affectionate, her purring and her dimples make a formidable array not at all to be despised. You are right. She is the same to a score of men, and I could not fall in love with her were she the only girl on earth. I should be kicked for speaking so of her or of any girl, but you know I would not speak so freely to any one but you.

Speaking to you seems almost like thinking."

"If it makes you think, I shall be glad you spoke," answered Billy.

"No more Sukey for me," said Dic. "I'll have nothing more to do with her. I want to be decent and worthy of Rita. I want to be true to her, and Sukey is apt to lead me in the other direction, without even the excuse on my part of caring for her. An honest man will not deliberately lead himself into temptation."

Upon the Sunday previous to Dic's intended departure for New York he visited Rita. He had made this New York trip once before, and had returned safely, therefore its terrors for Rita were greatly reduced.

Her regret on account of the second expedition was solely because she would be separated from Dic for three or four months, and that bitterness was sweetened by the thought that she would have him always after his return.

"How shall I act while you are away?" she asked. "Shall I continue to receive Mr. Williams, or shall I refuse to see him? You must decide for me, and I'll act as you wish. You know how unhappy mother will be if I refuse to see him and--and, you know she will be very severe with me. I would not care so much for that, although her harshness hurts me terribly. But mother's in bad health--her heart is troubling her a great deal of late--and I can't bear to cause her pain. On the other hand, it tortures me when that man comes near me, and it must pain you when I receive him kindly. I can't bear to pain you and--and at times I fear if I permit his attention you will--will doubt me. That would kill me, Dic; I really believe it would."

"Don't worry on that score," replied Dic, placing his hand on her heart, "there is nothing but truth here."

"I hope not, Dic," she replied. She could not boast even of her fidelity. There might be many sorts of evil in that heart, for all she knew.

"Indeed, there is not," said Dic, tenderly. "If by any chance we should ever be separated,--if we should ever lose each other,--it will not be because of your bad faith."

"But, Dic," cried Rita, "that terrible 'if.' It is the first time you ever used the word with reference to us."

"It means nothing, Rita," answered Dic, rea.s.suringly. "There can be no 'if' between you and me. As for Williams, you must receive him and treat him kindly. Tom is his clerk, and I should hate to see Tom lose his position. Tom is a mighty good fellow. You say your father owes Williams a large debt. He might, if he chose, act ugly. Therefore, you must act prettily. Poor Williams! I'm sorry for him. We will give them all the slip when I return."

The slip came in an unexpected manner, and Dic did not go to New York.

Rita's continued aversion to Williams, instead of cooling that young man's ardor, fired it to a degree previously unknown in the cool-blooded Williams family. He had visited his cultured home for the purpose of dilating upon the many charms of body, soul, and mind possessed by this fair girl of the wilderness. His parents, knowing him to be a young man of sound Mayflower judgment and worthy to be trusted for making a good, sensible bargain in all matters of business, including matrimony, readily gave their consent, and offered him his father's place at the head of the agricultural firm, in case he should marry. They were wise enough to know that a young man well married is a young man well made; and they had no doubt, judging from Roger's description, that Rita was the girl of girls.

Williams did not tell his parents that up to that time his wooing had been in vain, and they, with good reason, did not conceive it possible that any girl in her right mind would refuse their son. Roger was willing, Roger's parents were willing, Rita's parents were eager for the match; every person and everything needful were on his side, save one small girl. Roger thought that trifling obstacle would soon yield to the pressure of circ.u.mstances, the persuasion of conditions, and the charm of his own personality. He and the conditions had been warring upon the small obstacle for many months, and still it was as small as ever--but no smaller. The non-aggressive, feather-bed stubbornness of insignificant obstacles is often very irritating to an enterprising soul.

Williams was a fine, intellectual fellow, and his knowledge of human nature had enabled him to estimate--at least to approximate--the inestimable value of the girl he so ardently desired. Her rare beauty would, he thought, grace a palace; while her manifold virtues and good common-sense would accomplish a much greater task, and grace a home.

Added to these reasons of state was a pa.s.sionate love on the part of Williams of which any woman might have been proud. Williams was, ordinarily, sure-footed, and would have made fewer mistakes in his wooing had his love been less feverish. He also had a great fund of common-sense, but love is inimical to that rare commodity, and under the blind G.o.d's distorting influence the levelest head will, in time, become conical. So it happened that, after many months of cautious manoeuvring, Williams began to make mistakes.

For the sake of her parents and Tom, Rita had treated Williams with quiet civility, and when she learned that she could do so without precipitating a too great civility on his part, she gathered confidence and received him with undisguised cordiality. Roger, in his eagerness, took undue hope. Believing that the obstacle had become very small, he determined, upon occasion, to remove it entirely, by one bold stroke.

Rita's kindness and Roger's growing hope and final determination to try the issue of one pivotal battle, all came into being during the period when Dic had reduced his visits to one month. The final charge by the Boston 'vincibles was made on the evening following Dic's visit last-mentioned.

An ominous quiet had reigned in the Williams camp for several months, and the beleaguered city, believing that hostilities had ceased, was lulled into a state of unwatchfulness, which, in turn, had given great hope to the waiting cohorts.

Upon the Monday evening referred to, the girl commanding the beleaguered forces received the enemy, whom she wished might be her friend, into her outworks, the front parlor. Little dreaming that a perfidious Greek was entering her Trojan gates, she laughed and talked charmingly, hoping, if possible, to smooth the road for her father and Tom by the help of her all-powerful smiles. Poor and weak she considered those smiles to be; but the Greek thought them wondrous, and coveted them as no Greek ever coveted Troy. Feeling that Williams sought only her friendship, and being more than willing to give him that, she was her natural self, and was more winsome and charming than she had ever before appeared to him.

Her graciousness, which he should have been wise enough to understand but did not, her winsomeness and beauty, which he should have been strong enough to withstand but was not, and his love, which he tried to resist but could not, induced him upon that evening to make an attack.

Many little items of local interest had been discussed, foreign affairs were touched upon, books, music, and the blessed weather had each been duly considered, and short periods of silence had begun to occur, together with an occasional smothered yawn from Rita. Williams, with the original purpose of keeping the conversation going and with no intent to boast, said:--

"My father has purchased a new home in Boston beyond the Common, over on the avenue, and has offered to give me his old house. He has determined to retire from the firm and I am to take his place. I shall start for Boston Christmas Day"--here his self-control forsook him--"and, Rita, if you will go with me, I shall be the happiest man on earth."

The girl remained silent, feeling that he knew her mind on the subject, and hoping he would proceed no farther. Hope, spurred by desire, is easily awakened, and Williams, misunderstanding her silence, continued:--

"I do not mean to boast, but I cannot help telling you that your home in Boston, if you will go with me, will be one of the most beautiful in the city. All that wealth can buy you shall have, and all that love and devotion can bring you shall possess. Other girls would jump at the chance--" (poor conical head--this to this girl) "but I want you, Rita--want you of all the world."

Rita rose to her feet, surprised and alarmed by this Grecian trick, and Williams, stepping quickly to her side, grasped her hand. He had lost his wonted self-control and was swept forward by the flood of his long-pent-up emotions.

"Mr. Williams, I beg you will not--" cried Rita, endeavoring to withdraw her hand.

"You shall listen to me," he cried, half in anger, half pleadingly. "I have loved you as tenderly and unselfishly as woman ever was loved, since I first knew you. I know I am not worthy of you, but I am the equal of any other man, and you shall treat me fairly."

The girl, in alarm, struggled to free herself from his grasp, but he held her and continued:--