Part 26 (1/2)
”Do you see a resemblance in the miniature to--to any one you know?”
asked Billy Little.
”By George!” exclaimed Dic, holding the picture at arm's length, ”Rita--her mouth, her eyes; the same name, too,” and he kissed the miniature rapturously.
”Look here, young fellow,” cried Billy Little. ”Hand me that miniature.
You shan't be kissing all my female friends. By Jove! if she were to come over here, I'd drive you out of the settlement with a shot-gun, 'deed if I wouldn't. Now you will probably change your mind about unselfishly surrendering Rita to Williams. I tell you, Dic, a fool conscience is more to be dreaded than a knavish heart.”
”You are always right, Billy Little, though, to tell you the truth, I had no intention whatever of surrendering Rita to any one,” returned Dic.
”I know you hadn't. Of course I knew you could not even have spoken about it had you any thought that it might be possible.”
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 role 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sist him in winning Rita. His pa.s.sion 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 s.e.x 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 a.s.sistance. 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 a.s.sumed 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 una.s.sertive, 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, d.i.c.k 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 partners.h.i.+p, 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 suns.h.i.+ne.
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, flas.h.i.+ng 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.