Part 8 (1/2)
He abandoned the weather and said somewhat abruptly:--
”Rita, if I offended you to-night, I am sorry. I cannot tell you all the pain I feel. When you dropped the handkerchief behind me, I thought--I know I was wrong and should have known better at the time--but I thought--”
”Oh, Dic,” she softly interrupted, still smoothing the gra.s.s with her foot, ”I am not offended; it is you.”
Had the serene yellow moon burst into a thousand blazing suns, Dic could not have been more surprised.
”Rita, do you mean it? Do you really mean it?” he asked.
”Yes,” she whispered.
”And were you afraid I was offended?”
”Yes,” again very softly.
”And did you care?”
”Yes,” with an emphatic nod of the head.
”And do you--” he paused, and she hesitatingly whispered:--
”Yes.” She did not know what his question would have been; but whatever he wished to ask, ”Yes” would be her answer, so she gave it, and Dic continued:--
”Do you wish me to remain for a few minutes?”
This time the ”Yes” was given by a p.r.o.nounced drooping of the head, but she took his hand for an instant that she might not possibly be misunderstood.
Dic hitched his horse to the fence, and, turning to Rita, said:--
”Shall we go over to the log by the river?”
”Yes.” Ah, how many yeses she had for him that night, and yes is a sweet word.
When they were seated on the log the girl waited a reasonable time for Dic to begin the conversation. He remained silent, and soon she concluded to take the matter temporarily in her own hands. He had begun a moment before, but had stopped; perhaps with a little help he would begin again.
”I was sure you were angry,” she said, ”and I thought you would not forgive me this time. I have so often given you cause to dislike me.”
”Oh, Rita, I don't believe you know that you could not make me dislike you. When I thought that--that you did not care for me, I was so grieved that life seemed almost worthless, but I love you so dearly, Rita--” but that was just what he had determined never, never to tell her. He stopped midway in his unintentional confession, surprised that the girl did not indignantly leave him. Her heart beat wofully. Breathing suddenly became harder work than churning. She sat demurely by his side on the log, only too willing to listen, with a dictionary full of ”Yeses” on the end of her tongue, and he sat beside her, unable for the moment to think. After a long pause she determined to give him a fresh start.
”I was in the wrong, Dic, and if you wish I'll apologize to you before all who saw me. But I was frightened. I should not have gone into the game. It may be right for other girls--I would not say that it is not right--but for me, I know it would be a sin--a real sin. I am not wise, but, Dic, something tells me that certain things cannot occupy a middle ground. They must be holy and sacred, or they are sinful, and I--I did not want it to--to happen then, because--because--” there she stopped speaking. She had unintentionally used the word ”then,” with slight emphasis; but slight as it was, it sent Dic's soul soaring heavenward, buoyant with ecstasy.
”Why, Rita, why did you not want it to happen--” he feared to say ”then,” and it would seem from the new position of his arm, he also feared she might fall backward off the log.
”Because--because,” came in soft whispers. The beautiful head was drooped, and the face was hidden from even the birds and the moon, while Dic's disengaged hand, out of an abundance of caution lest she might fall, clasped hers.
”Because--why, Rita?” he pleaded.
Softly came the response, ”Because I wanted to be alone with--with--you when it--it happened.” It happened before she had finished her sentence, but when it was finished the head lay upon his shoulder, and the birds, should they awaken, or the moon, or any one else, might see for aught she cared. It was holy and sacred now, and she felt no shame: she was proud. The transfer of herself had been made. She belonged to him, and he, of course, must do with his own property as he saw fit. It was no longer any affair of hers.
The victory of complete surrender is sometimes all-conquering; at any rate, Dic was subjugated for life. His situation was one that would be hard to improve upon in the way of mere earthly bliss. Heaven may furnish something better, and if it does, the wicked certainly have no conception of what they are going to miss. Tom, for example, would never have put b.u.t.tons in the offering. Doug would not gamble and drink. Poor, painted Nanon would starve rather than sin. Old man Jones, in the amen corner, would not swindle his neighbor; nor would Wetmore, the Baptist, practise the holy calling of shepherd, having in his breast the heart of a wolf. We all, saving a woman here and there, have our sins, little and great, and many times in the day we put in jeopardy that future bliss.
But I console myself with the hope that there is as much forgiveness in heaven as there is sin on earth, save for the hypocrite. There may be forgiveness even for him, but I trust not.