A KISS AND A DUEL
CHAPTER XI
A Kiss and a Duel
I shall not attempt to give you an account of Dic's numerous journeyings to Indianapolis. With no abatement in affection, the period of his visits changed from weekly to fortnightly, and then to monthly. Meantime, Williams was adroitly plying his suit; and by convincing Rita that he had abandoned the rôle of lover for that of friend, he succeeded in regaining her confidence. As agent for his father's products, he had an office at Indianapolis, and large sums of money passed through his hands. He and Tom became great cronies, for it was Williams's intention to leave no stone unturned, the turning of which might assist him in winning Rita. His passion for the girl became almost desperate at times, and her unmistakable coldness added fuel to the flame. He well knew she did not love him; but, like many another mistaken man, he believed he could teach her that great lesson if she were his wife, and could not believe that she entertained either a serious or a lasting sentiment for so inferior a person as Diccon Bright. Williams had invariably found smooth sailing with other young ladies; and head winds in Rita's case caused the harbor to appear fairer than any other for which he had ever trimmed his sails.
Soon after Rita's entrance into Indianapolis society she became popular with the fair sex and admired of the unfair; that condition, in my opinion, being an unusual triumph for any young woman. To that end Williams was of great assistance. A rich, cultured society man of Boston was sure to cut a great figure among the belles and mothers of a small frontier town. The girl whom Williams delighted to honor necessarily assumed importance in the eyes of her sisters. In most cases they would have disliked her secretly in direct ratio to the cube of their outward respect; but Rita was so gentle and her beauty was so exquisite, yet unassertive, that the girl soon numbered among her friends all who knew her. There were the Tousy and the Peasly girls, the Wright girls and the Morrisons, to say nothing of the Smiths, Browns, and Joneses, many of whom were the daughters of cultured parents. If any one nowadays believes that Indianapolis—little spot in the wilderness though it was—lacked refined society during the thirties, he is much mistaken. Servants were scarce, and young ladies of cultured homes might any day be called upon to cook the dinner or the supper, and afterward to "do up" the work; but they could leave the kitchen after preparing a good meal, walk into the parlor and play Beethoven and Mozart with credit to themselves and their instructors, and pleasure to their audience. They could leave the piano and discuss Shakespeare, Addison, Dick Steele, Provost, and Richardson; and, being part of the immutable feminine, could also discuss their neighbors upon occasion, and speak earnestly upon the serious subject of frocks and frills. As to beauty—but that is a benediction granted to all times and places, creating more or less trouble everywhere.
The Tousy girls, having wealth, beauty, and numbers—there were five of them, ranging in years from fifteen to twenty-five—led the social march; and they at once placed the stamp of unqualified approval upon our little country girl from Blue. The eldest of the Tousy brood was, of course, Miss Tousy; then came Sue, Kate, and the others, both of whom, naturally, had names of their own. Miss Tousy will soon make her appearance again in these pages for a short time. Her own romance I should like to tell you some day.
The firm of Fisher and Fox thrived famously during the first few months of their partnership, and that Tom might not be ashamed of Rita when in society, Mrs. Bays consented that she should have some new gowns, hats, and wraps. All this fine raiment pleased Dic for Rita's sake, and troubled him for his own.
The first he saw of the new gowns was on a certain bright Sunday afternoon in spring. Rita's heart had been divided between two desires: she longed to tell Dic in her letters of her beautiful new gowns, but she also wished to surprise him. By a masterful effort she took the latter course, and coming downstairs after dinner upon the Sunday mentioned she burst suddenly upon Dic in all her splendor. Her delight was so intense that she could not close her lips for smiling, and Dic was fairly stunned by her grandeur and beauty. She turned this way and that, directing him to observe the beautiful tints and the fashionable cut of her garments, and asked him if the bonnet with its enormous "poke," filled with monster roses, was not a thing of beauty and a joy so long as it should last. Dic agreed with her, and told her with truth that he had never seen a fashion so sweet and winsome. Then he received his reward, after being cautioned not to disturb the bonnet, and they started out for a walk in the sunshine.
Dic's garments were good enough,—he had bought them in New York,—but Rita's outfit made his clothes look poor and rusty. Ever since her residence in Indianapolis he had felt the girl slipping away from him, and this new departure in the matter of dress seemed to be a further departure in the matter of Rita. In that conclusion he was wrong. The girl had been growing nearer to him day by day. Her heart belonged to him more entirely than it had even on the banks of Blue, and she longed for the sycamore divan and the royal canopy of elm. Still, she loved her pretty gowns.
"I am almost afraid of you," said Dic, when he had closed the gate and was taking his place beside her for the walk.
"Why?" asked Rita, delightedly. Her heart was full of the spring and Dic; what more could she desire?
"Your gown, your bonnet, your dainty shoes, your gloves, your beauty, all frighten me," said Dic. "I can't believe they belong to me. I can't realize they are mine."
"But they are," she said, flashing up to him a laughing glance from her eyes. "My new gown should not frighten you."
"But it does," he returned, "and you, too."
"I am glad if I frighten you," she answered, while lacing her gloves. "I have been afraid of you long enough. It is your turn now."
"You have been afraid of me?" asked Dic in surprise.
"Yes," she returned quite seriously. "I have always been slightly afraid of you, and I hope I always shall be. The night of Scott's social I was simply frightened to death, and before that night for a long, long time I was in constant fear of you. I was afraid you would speak of—you know—and I was afraid you would not. I did not know what terrible catastrophe would happen if you did speak, and I did not know what would happen to me if you did not. So you see I have always been afraid of you," she said laughingly.
"Why, Rita, I would not harm a hair of your head."
"Of course not. I did not fear you in that way. You are so strong and big and masterful; that is what frightens me. Perhaps I enjoy fearing you just a bit."
"But you are so much grander than I," returned Dic, "that you seem to be farther from me than ever before."
"Farther?" she asked in surprise.
"Yes, you seem to be drifting from me ever since you came to Indianapolis," he returned.
"Ah, Dic, I have been feeling just the reverse," and her eyes opened wide as she looked into his without faltering. There was not a thought in all their gentle depths she would not gladly have him know. A short silence ensued, during which she was thinking rapidly, and her thoughts produced these remarkable words:—
"You should have taken me long ago." Dic wondered how he might have taken her; but failing to discover any mistake, he went on:—
"I am going to New York again this spring and,—and you will be past eighteen when I return. You can then marry me without your mother's consent, if you will. Will you go home with me when I return?"
The eyes and the face were bent toward the ground, but the lips whispered distinctly, "Yes, Dic," and that young man bitterly regretted the publicity of their situation.
Soon our strollers met other young persons, and Dic was presented. All were dressed in holiday attire, and the young man from Blue felt that his companion and her friends outshone him completely. Rita was proud of him, and said as much in reply to Dic's remark when they resumed their walk.
"You might come to see me during the week, when the stores are open," she said, "and you might buy one of the new-fashioned hats. If you can afford it, you might order a long coat for Sunday. Polished shoes would look well, too; but I am satisfied with you as you are. I only suggest these purchases because you seem to feel uncomfortable."
After Rita's suggestion he did feel uncomfortable. He had earned no money since his return from New York, and Rita's fine feathers had been purchased by the proceeds of his twenty-six hundred dollars invested in her father's business. Therefore, hat, coat, and shoes were not within his reach unless he should go into debt, and that he had no thought of doing.
With her husband's increasing prosperity, Mrs. Bays grew ever more distant in her manner toward Dic. Rita, having once learned that rebellion did not result in instant death to her or to her parent, had taken courage, and governed her treatment of Williams by her mother's conduct toward Dic. Therefore Justice, though stern, was never insulting.
After Rita's suggestion bearing upon the coat, Dic, though ardently desiring to see her, dreaded to go to Indianapolis, and at that time his visits became monthly, much to Rita's grief. She complained in her letters, and her gentle reproaches were pathetic and painful to Dic.
Tom frequently visited the old home, and, incidentally, Sukey Yates, upon whom his city manner and fashionable attire made a tremendous impression. Returning home from his visits to Sukey, Tom frequently spoke significantly of Dic's visits to that young lady's ciphering log, and Rita winced at her brother's words, but said nothing. Miss Yates probably multiplied the number of Dic's visits by two or more in speaking of them to Tom, having in mind the double purpose of producing an effect upon that young man and also upon his sister. But there was too much truth in her boasting, since our hero certainly submitted himself to Sukey's blandishments and placed himself under the fatal spell of her dimples with an increasing frequency which was to be lamented. Especially was it lamented by Billy Little. Sukey was so perfect a little specimen of the human animal, and her heart was so prone to tenderness, that she became, upon intimate acquaintance, the incarnation of that condition into which the right sort of people pray kind Providence to lead them not. The neighborhood gossips and prophets freely predicted that Rita would marry Williams, in which case it was surmised Miss Yates would carry her dimples into the Bright family. This theory Sukey encouraged by arch glances and shy denials.
Tom had become a great dandy, and considered himself one of the commercial features of the Indiana metropolis. He would have his old home friends, including Sukey, believe that he directed the policy of Fisher and Fox, and that he was also the real business brain in the office of Roger Williams, where he occupied the position of confidential clerk. He was of little real value to Williams, save in the matter of wooing Tom's sister. Tom knew that he held his clerkship only by the tenure of Rita's smiles, and Williams, by employing him, gained an ally not at all to be despised.
On a certain Monday morning, after Rita had the day previous shown marked preference to Dic, Williams said:—
"Tom, father orders me to cut down expenses, and I fear I shall be compelled to begin with your salary. I regret the necessity, but the governor's orders are imperative. We will let it stand as it is for this month and will see what can be done afterward."
This gentle hint was not lost on Thomas. He went home that day to dinner, and Rita felt the heavy hand of her brother's displeasure.
"You are the most selfish, ungrateful girl living," said Tom, who honestly thought his fair sister had injured him. Tom's sense of truth, like his mother's, ran parallel to his wishes.
"Why?" asked Rita, wonderingly. Had the earth slipped from its axis, Tom and his mother would have placed the blame on Rita.
"Why?" repeated Tom. "Because you know I have a good position with Williams. He pays me a better salary than any one else would give me; yet you almost insulted him yesterday and went off for a walk with that country jake."
"Isn't Dic your friend?" asked Rita.
"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 nobody 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 vassal, 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 attitude 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 encompasses 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, reassuringly. "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 circumstances, 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 passionate 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 god's distorting influence the levelest head will, in time, become conical. So it happened that, after many months of cautious manœuvring, 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:—
"No other man can give you the love I feel for you, and you shall respond to it."
"It is impossible, Mr. Williams," she said pleadingly. "You do not know all. I am sorry, so sorry, to give you pain." Her ever ready tears began to flow. "But I do not feel toward you as you wish. I—there is another. He is—has been very near to me since I was a child, and I have promised to be his wife this long time."
Her words were almost maddening to Williams, and he retorted as if he were, in truth, mad.
"That country fellow? You shall never marry him! I swear it! He is a poor, supercilious fool and doesn't know it! He has nothing in this world, and has never seen anything beyond the limits of his father's farm."
"He has been to New York," interrupted Rita, in all seriousness.
Williams laughed. "I tell you he is a boor. He is a—"
"He is to be my husband, Mr. Williams, and I hope you will not speak ill of him," said Rita, with cold dignity.
"He is not to be your husband," cried Williams, angrily. "You shall be mine—mine; do you hear? Mine! I will have you, if I must—" he caught the girl in his arms, and pressing her head back upon the bend of his elbow, kissed her lips to his heart's content and to his own everlasting undoing. When he released her she started from the room, but he, grasping her arm, detained her, saying:—
"Rita, I beg your pardon. I lost my head. I am sorry. Forgive me."
"There can be no forgiveness for you," she said, speaking slowly, "and I wish you to let me leave the room."
"Rita, forgive me," he pleaded. "I tell you I was insane when I—I did that. You have almost driven me mad. You can surely forgive me when you know that my act was prompted by my love. Your heart is ready with forgiveness and love for every one but me, and I, more than all others, love you. I beg you to forgive me, and if I cannot have your love, forget what I have done this night and again be my friend."
After a long, painful pause, she spoke deliberately: "I would not marry you, Mr. Williams, if you were a king, or if I should die by reason of refusing you. I cannot now be even your friend. I shall tell my father and brother what you have done, and they will order you out of this house. I will tell Dic, and he will kill you!" Her eyes, usually so gentle, were hard and cold, as she continued: "There is the door. I hope you will never darken it again."
She again started to leave the room, and he again detained her. He knew that disgrace would follow exposure, and, being determined to silence her at any cost, said angrily:—
"If you tell your father, I will take from him his store, his home, his farm. He owes me more than all combined are worth. If you will not listen to me through love, you shall do so from fear. I am sorry, very sorry, for what happened. I know the consequences if you speak of it. No one can be made to understand exactly how it happened, and I will protect myself; of that you may be sure. If you speak of what I did, driven to it by my love for you, I say I will turn your father and mother into the street. They will be penniless in their old age. Your brother Tom is a thief. He has been stealing from me ever since he came to my office. Only last night I laid a trap for him and caught him in the act of stealing fifty dollars. He took the money and lost it at Welch's gambling saloon. He has taken, in all, nearly a thousand dollars. I have submitted to his thefts on your account. I have extended your father's notes because he is your father. But if you tell any one that I—I kissed you to-night, or if you repeat what I have told concerning your father and brother, your parents go to the street, and Tom to the penitentiary. Now, do you understand me?"
"Yes."
"Will you remain silent?"
"Yes."
Then he took his hat, saying, "I have been beside myself to-night, but it was through love for you, and you will forgive me, won't you?"
"Yes."
"And I may come again?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And we will forget all that has happened this evening and you will be my friend?"
"Yes."
"If you will forgive me," he continued, recovering his senses, "and will allow me the sweet privilege of your friendship, I promise never again to speak of my love until you have given me permission. Shall it be a compact?"
"Yes," murmured the girl.
"Will you give me your hand?" he asked. She offered the hand, and he clasping it, said:—
"You have much to forgive, but your heart is full of gentleness, and you have promised."
"Yes, I have promised," she returned huskily.
"Good night, Rita."
"Good night."
The girl hurried to her room, and, almost unconscious of what she was doing, dressed for the night. During the first few minutes after she had extinguished the candle and had crept into bed, she could not think coherently, but soon consciousness came in an ingulfing flood. Williams's kisses seemed to stick to her. She rubbed her lips till they were raw, but still the clinging pollution seemed to penetrate to her soul. Her first coherent thought, of course, was of Dic. No man but he had ever, till that night, touched her lips, and with him a kiss was a sacrament. Now he would scorn her. The field of her disaster seemed to broaden, as she thought of it, and with the chastity of her lips she felt that she had lost everything worth having in life. Abandoning her pillow, she covered her head with the counterpane, and drawing her knees to her breast, lay trembling and sobbing. Dic was lost to her. There seemed to be no other possible outcome to the present situation. She feared Williams as never before, and felt that she was in his clutches beyond escape. The situation seemed hopeless beyond even the reach of prayer, her usual refuge, and she did not pray. She knew of her father's debt to Williams, and had always feared that Tom was not to be trusted. She was convinced without evidence other than Williams's words that he had told the truth, and she knew that ruin and disgrace for her father and Tom waited upon a nod from the man whom she hated, and that the nod waited upon her frown.
The next morning Rita's face lacked much of its wonted beauty. Her eyes were red and dim, the cheeks were pale and dim, her lips were blue and dim, and all the world, seen by her eyes, was dark and dim. The first thing that must be done, of course, was to tell Dic of the ravaged kiss. She had no more desire to conceal that terrible fact from him than a wounded man has to deceive the surgeon. He must be told without delay, even should he at once spurn her forever.
She feared Williams, bearing in mind his threat, and determined first to pledge Dic to secrecy, and then to tell him of her disgrace. She wrote to him, begging him to come to her at once; and he lost no time in going.
He arrived at the Bays house an hour past noon, and Rita soon had him to herself in the front parlor. When they entered the room and were alone he took her hand; but she withdrew it, saying:—
"No, no; wait till you hear what has happened."
He readily saw that something terrible had transpired. "What is it, Rita? Tell me quickly."
"I can't, Dic, till I have your solemn promise that you will never repeat what I am about to tell you."
"But, Rita—" he began, in expostulation.
"No—no, you must promise. You must swear—if you will hear."
"I promise. I swear if you wish. What can it be?"
Then she drew him to a settee, and with downcast eyes began her piteous story.
"Monday evening Mr. Williams came to call upon me. You know you said I must receive him kindly. I did so. And he again asked me to—to—you know—to marry him. When I told him it was impossible, he grew angry; and when I became frightened and tried to leave the room, he caught me by the hand and would not let me go. Then he told me again how desperately he cared for me; and when I answered angrily and tried to escape, he held me and—and—oh, Dic, I can't tell you. I thought I could, but I can't. I—I loathe myself." She bent her head forward, and covering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively.
"Go on, Rita. My God! you must tell me," demanded Dic.
"I know I must," she replied between sobs. "Oh, Dic, do not hate me. He held me to him as you sometimes do,—but, oh, it was so different. I was helpless, and he bent back my head and kissed me on the lips till I thought I should faint."
"The cowardly hound. He shall pay dearly for his—"
"I have your promise, your oath," said the girl, interrupting him.
"But, Rita—"
"I trusted you, Dic, and I know you will faithfully keep your promise. Father owes Williams a large sum of money, and Tom has been stealing from him." Here she began to weep. "He will ruin father and send Tom to the penitentiary if he learns that I have told you this. He told me he would, and I promised I would tell no one; but my duty to you is higher than my duty to keep my promise. Now you know why I held you off when we came in here."
"No, I don't know," he replied. "You have not promised to marry him?"
"No, no," she returned excitedly.
"Then why did you refuse me?"
"I'm not worthy to be your wife. I feel that I have been contaminated," she answered.
"No, no, girl," he cried joyfully. "It was not your fault. The falling snow is not purer than you, and truth itself is not truer than your heart. I go to New York soon, and when I return all your troubles will cease."
"They have ceased already, Dic," she murmured, placing her head upon his breast, while tears fell unheeded over her cheeks. "I thought an hour ago I should never again be happy, but I am happy already. Dic, you are a wonderful man to produce such a change in so short a time."
"I am wonderful only in what you give me," he answered.
"How beautifully you speak," she whispered; but the remainder of that interview is not at all necessary to this story.
Dic left Rita late in the afternoon and met Williams on the street down town. They could not easily pass each other without exchanging words, so they stopped and spoke stiffly about the weather, past, present, and future. Dic tried to conceal all traces of resentment, and partially succeeded. Williams, still smarting from his troubles and mistakes with Rita, and hating Dic accordingly, concealed his feelings with poor success. The hatred of these men for each other was plain in every word and act, and in a few moments, Williams, unable longer to bear the strain, said:—
"This sham between us is disgusting. Let us settle our differences as gentlemen adjust such affairs."
"Do you mean that we shall fight it out?" asked Dic.
"Yes," returned Williams. "You are not afraid to fight, are you?"
"No, and yes," answered Dic. "I have had but few fights—I fear I could not go into a fight in cold blood and—and for many reasons I do not wish to fight you."
"I supposed you would decline. I knew you to be a coward," sneered Williams, growing brave upon seeing Dic's disinclination.
"No," responded Dic, calmly looking into Williams's face, "I have nothing to fear from you. You could not stand against me even for one minute."
"But you misunderstand me," said Williams. "I do not wish to fight with my fists. That is the method of ruffians and country bullies. I am not surprised at your mistake."
Dic laughed softly and replied: "I do not know why your words don't anger me. Perhaps because I pity you. I can afford to be magnanimous and submit to your ravings; therefore, I am neither angry nor afraid."
"I propose to settle our difficulty as gentlemen adjust such affairs," said Williams. "Of course, you know nothing about the methods of gentlemen. I challenge you to meet me in a duel. Now do you understand—understand?"
Williams was nervous, and there was a murderous gleam in his eyes. Dic's heart throbbed faster for a moment, but soon took again its regular beat. He rapidly thought over the situation and said:—
"I don't want to kill you and don't want you to kill me." He paused for a moment with a smile on his lips and continued: "Suppose we let the girl decide this between us. But perhaps I am again showing my ignorance of gentlemanly methods. Do gentlemen force their attentions upon unwilling ladies?"
"Oh, if you refuse," retorted Williams, ignoring his question, "I can slap your face now in the public streets."
"Don't do it, Williams," responded Dic, looking to the ground and trying to remain calm.
"Why?" Williams asked.
"Because—I will fight you if you insist, without the occasion of a street brawl. Another name might be brought into that."
"Am I to understand that you accept my challenge?" asked Williams.
"Yes, if you insist," replied Dic, calmly, as if he were accepting an invitation to dinner. "I have always supposed that this sort of an affair should be arranged between gentlemen by their friends; but of course I don't know how gentlemen act under these circumstances. Perhaps you don't consider me a gentleman, and you certainly must have some doubts in your mind concerning yourself; therefore, it may be proper for us to arrange this little matter with each other."
"I suppose you would prefer seconds," returned Williams. "They might prevent a meeting."
After a few moments of silence Dic said, "If we fight, I fear another person's name will be dragged into our quarrel."
"You may, if you wish, find plenty of excuses," returned Roger. "If you wish to accept my challenge, do so. If not, say so, and I will take my own course."
"Oh, I'll accept," returned Dic, cheerily. "As the challenged party, if we were gentlemen, I believe I might choose the weapons."
"Yes," responded Williams.
"What do you suppose would be the result were I to choose rifles at two hundred yards?" asked Dic, with an ugly smile on his face.
"I should be delighted," responded the other. "I expected you to choose hoes or pitchforks."
"I think it fair to tell you," said Dic, "that I can hit a silver dollar four times out of five shots at two hundred yards, and you will probably do well to hit a barn door once out of ten at that distance. I will let you see me shoot before I definitely choose weapons. Afterwards, if you prefer some other, I will abide your choice."
"I am satisfied with your choice," responded Williams, who prided himself upon his rifle-shooting, in which accomplishment Dic had underrated his antagonist.
"We must adopt some plan to prevent people from connecting another person with this affair," suggested Dic. "If you will come down to Bays's farm for a day's hunting, I will meet you there, and the result may be attributed by the survivor to a hunting accident."
"The plan suits me," said Williams. "I'll meet you there to-morrow at noon. I'll tell Tom I have an engagement to go squirrel-hunting with you."
Dic rode home, and of course carried the news of his forthcoming duel to Billy Little.
"There are worse institutions in this world than the duel," remarked Billy, much to his listener's surprise. "It helps to thin out the fools."
"But, Billy Little, I must fight him," responded Dic. "He insists, and will not accept my refusal. He says I am afraid to fight him."
"If he should say you were a blackamoor, I suppose you would be black," retorted Billy. "Is that the way of it?"
"But I am glad he does not give me an opportunity to refuse," said Dic.
"I supposed as much," answered Billy. "You will doubtless be delighted if he happens to put a bullet through you, and will surely be happy for life if you kill him."
"It is his doing, Billy Little," said Dic, with an ugly gleam in his eyes, "and I would not balk him. Billy Little, I would fight that man if I knew I should hang for it the next day. I'll tell you—he grossly insulted Rita Monday evening. He held her by force and kissed her lips till she was hardly conscious."
"Good God!" cried Billy, springing to his feet and trembling with excitement. "Fight him, Dic! Kill him, Dic! Kill the brute! If you don't, by the good God, I will."
"You need not urge me, Billy Little. I'm quite willing enough. Still I hope I shall not kill him."
"You hope you will not kill him?" demanded Billy. "If you do not, I will. Where do you meet?"
"He will be at Bays's house to-morrow noon, and we will go up to my cleared eighty, half a mile north. There we will step off a course of two hundred yards and fire. Whatever happens we will say was the result of a hunting accident."
Billy determined to be in hiding near the field of battle, and was secreted in the forest adjoining the cleared eighty an hour before noon next day. Late in the morning Dic took his rifle and walked down to the Bays's house. I shall not try to describe his sensations.
Williams was waiting, and Dic found him carefully examining his gun. The gun contained a bullet which, Dic thought, with small satisfaction, might within a short time end his worldly troubles, and the troubles seemed more endurable than ever before. Sleep had cooled his brain since his conversation with Billy, and he could not work himself into a murderous state of mind. He possessed Rita, and love made him magnanimous. He did not want to fight, though fear was no part of his reluctance. The manner of his antagonist soon left no doubt in Dic's mind that the battle was sure to come off. Something in Williams—perhaps it was his failure to meet his enemy's eyes—alarmed Dic's suspicions, and for a moment he feared treachery at the hands of his morose foe; but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and opening the gate started up the river path, taking the lead. He was ashamed to show his distrust of Williams, though he could not entirely throw it off, and the temptation to turn his head now and then to watch his following enemy was irresistible. They had been walking but a few minutes when Dic, prompted by distrust, suddenly turned his head and looked into the barrel of a gun held firmly to the shoulder of our gentleman from Boston. With the nimbleness of a cat, Dic sprang to one side, and a bullet whistled past his face. One second later in turning his head and the hunting accident would have occurred.
After the shot Williams in great agitation said:—
"I saw a squirrel and have missed it."
"You may walk ahead," answered Dic, with not a nerve ruffled. "You might see another squirrel."
Williams began to reload his gun, but Dic interrupted the proceeding.
"Don't load now. We will soon reach the clearing."
Williams continued reloading, and was driving the patch down upon the powder. Dic cocked his rifle, and raising it halfway to his shoulder, said:—
"Don't put the bullet in unless you wish me to see a squirrel. I'll not miss. Throw me your bullet pouch."
Williams, whose face looked like a mask of death, threw the bullet pouch to Dic, and, in obedience to a gesture, walked forward on the path. After taking a few steps he looked backward to observe the man he had tried to murder.
"You need not watch me," Dic said; "I'm not hunting squirrels."
Soon they reached the open field. Dic had cleared every foot of the ground, and loved it because he had won it single-handed in a battle royal with nature; but nature was a royal foe that, when conquered, gave royal spoils of victory. The rich bottom soil had year by year repaid Dic many-fold for his labor. He loved the land, and if fate should prove unkind to him, he would choose that spot of all others upon which to fall.
"Is this the place?" asked Williams.
"Yes," answered Dic, tossing the bullet pouch. "Now you may load."
When Williams had finished loading, Dic said: "I will drop my hat here. We will walk from each other, you going west, I going east. The sun is in the south. When we have each taken one hundred steps, we will call 'Ready,' turn, and fire when we choose."
Accordingly, Dic dropped his hat, and the two men started, one toward the east, one toward the west, while the sun was shining in the south. Williams quickly ran his hundred steps.
Dic had counted forty steps when he heard the cry "Dic" coming from the forest ten yards to the south, and simultaneously the sharp crack of a rifle behind him. At the same instant his left leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground, supposing he had stepped into a muskrat hole. After he had fallen he turned quickly toward Williams and saw that gentleman hastily reloading his gun. Then he fully realized that his antagonist had shot him, though he was unable to account for the voice he had heard from the forest. That mystery, too, was quickly explained when he heard Billy's dearly loved voice calling to Williams:—
"Drop that gun, or you die within a second."
Turning to the left Dic saw his friend holding the rifle which had fallen from his own hands when he went down, and the little fellow looked the picture of determined ferocity. Williams dropped his gun. Dic was sitting upright where he had fallen, and Billy, handing him the weapon, said:—
"Kill him, Dic; kill him as you would a wolf. I'm afraid if I shoot I'll miss him, and then he will reload and kill you."
Williams was a hundred and forty yards away, but Dic could easily have pierced his heart. He took the gun and lifted it to his shoulder. Williams stood motionless as a tree upon a calm day. Dic lowered his gun, but after a pause lifted it again and covered Williams's heart. He held the gun to his shoulder for a second or two, then he threw it to the ground, saying:—
"I can't kill him. Tell him to go, Billy Little. Tell him to go before I kill him."
"'Kill Him, Dic; Kill Him As You Would A Wolf.'"
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 hæmorrhage 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."