Part 35 (1/2)
”I wish I had one of my waistcoats here,” said our little c.o.xcomb. ”I would b.u.t.ton it if I had to go into stays--egad! I would. I will show you those waistcoats some day,--India silk--corn color, with a touch of gold braid at the pockets, ivory b.u.t.tons the size of a sovereign, with gold centres, made by the artist who made the coat. The coat is all right. Wouldn't be ashamed to wear it to a presentation. I will b.u.t.ton it over this waistcoat and it will not be noticed. How do you like this stock--all right?”
”I think it is.”
”I have a better one at home. Got it down by the bank. Smith, Dye and Company, Limited, Haberdashers. I can recommend the place if--if you ever go to London. Brummel's haberdasher--Brummel knew the best places.
Depend upon him for that. Where he dealt, there you would hear the tramp of many feet. He made Schwitzer's fortune. Wonderful man, Brummel.
Wonderful man, and I like him if he does owe me a thousand pounds thirty years past due. Egad! it has been so long since I carried a stick I have almost lost the knack of the thing. A stick is a useful thing to a gentleman. Gives him grace, furnishes occupation for his hands. Gloves in one hand, stick in the other--no man need get his hands mixed. Got this stick down on Was.h.i.+ngton Street an hour ago. How do I seem to handle it?” He walked across the room, holding the stick in the most approved fas.h.i.+on--of thirty years before.
”It's fine, Billy Little, it's fine,” answered Dic, sorry to see an apparent weakness in his little friend, though loving him better for the sake of it. The past had doubled back on Billy for a day, and he felt a touch of his youth--of that olden time when the first dandy of England was heir-apparent to the crown and blubbered over an ill-fitting coat. If you will look at the people of those times through the lens of that fact, you will see something interesting and amusing.
After many glances toward the mirror, Billy announced that he was ready, and marched upon Miss Tousy, exulting in the fact that there was not in all the state another coat like the one he wore. Billy's vanity, to do him justice, was not at all upon his own account. He wished to appear well for Dic's sake, and ransacked his past life for points in etiquette and manner once familiar, but now almost forgotten by him and by the world. His quaint old resurrections were comical and apt to create mirth, but beneath their oddities I believe a discerning person would easily have recognized the gentleman.
I shall not describe to you Billy's Regency bow when Dic presented him to Miss Tousy; nor shall I bring into his conversation all the ”My dear madams,” ”Dear ladys,” and ”Beg pardons,” scattered broadcast in his effort to do credit to his protege. But Miss Tousy liked Billy, while she enjoyed his old-fas.h.i.+oned affectations; and in truth the man was in all respects worthy of the coat.
”Rita is very ill,” Miss Tousy said. ”Mrs. Bays says your conduct almost killed her daughter. Two doctors are with her now.”
”Terrible, my dear madam, terrible,” interrupted Billy, and Miss Tousy continued:--
”I whispered to Rita that you would remain, and she murmured, 'I'm so glad. Tell him mother forced me to promise that I would never see him again, and that promise is killing me. I can't forget it even for a moment. Ask him to forgive me, and ask him if it will be wrong for me to break the promise when I get well. I cannot decide whether it would be wrong for me to keep it or to break it. Both ways seem wicked to me!'”
”Wicked!” cried Billy springing from his chair excitedly, and walking across the room, gloves in one hand, stick in the other, and Brummel coat b.u.t.toned tightly across the questionable waistcoat, ”my dear lady, tell her it will be wicked--d.a.m.nable--beg pardon, beg pardon; but I must repeat, dear lady, it will be wicked and wrong--a d.a.m.ning wrong, if she keeps the promise obtained by force--by force, lady, by duress. Tell her I absolve her from the promise. I will go to Rome and get the Pope's absolution. No! that will be worse than none for Rita; she is a Baptist.
Well, well, I'll hunt out the head Baptist,--the high chief of all Baptists, if there is one,--and will get his absolution. But, my dear Miss Tousy, she has faith in me. I have never led her wrong in my life, and she knows it. Tell her I say the promise is not binding, before either G.o.d or man, and you will help her.”
”And tell her she will not be able to keep the promise,” interrupted Dic. ”I'll make it impossible. When she recovers, I'll kidnap her, if need be.”
”I'll go at once and tell her,” returned Miss Tousy. ”She is in need of those messages.”
Dic and Billy walked down to Bays's with Miss Tousy, and waited on the corner till she emerged from the house, when they immediately joined her.
”I gave her the messages,” said Miss Tousy, ”and she became quieter at once. 'Tell him I'll get well now,' she whispered. Then she smiled faintly, and said, 'Wouldn't it be romantic to be kidnapped?' After that she was silent; and within five minutes she slept, for the first time since yesterday.”
Rita's illness proved to be typhoid fever, a frightful disease in those days of bleeding and calomel.
Billy returned home after a few days, but Dic remained to receive his diurnal report from Miss Tousy.
One evening during the fourth week of Rita's illness Dic received the joyful tidings that the fever had subsided, and that she would recover.
He spent a great part of the night watching her windows from across the street, as he had spent many a night before.
On returning to the inn he found a letter from Sukey Yates. He had been thinking that the fates had put aside their grudge against him, and that his luck had turned. When he read the letter announcing that the poor little dimpler was in dire tribulation, and asking him to return to her at once and save her from disgrace, he still felt that the fates had changed--but for the worse. He was sure Sukey might, with equal propriety, make her appeal to several other young men--especially to Tom Bays; but he was not strong enough in his conviction to relieve himself of blame, or entirely to throw off a sense of responsibility. In truth, he had suffered for weeks with an excruciating remorse; and the sin into which he had been tempted had been resting like lead upon his conscience. He remembered Billy's warning against Sukey's too seductive charms; and although he had honestly tried to follow the advice, and had clearly seen the danger, he had permitted himself to be lured into a trap by a full set of dimples and a pair of moist, red lips. He was not so craven as to say, even to himself, that Sukey was to blame; but deep in his consciousness he knew that he had tried not to sin; and that Sukey, with her allurements, half childish, half-womanly, and all-enticing, had tempted him, and he had eaten. The news in her letter entirely upset him. For a time he could not think coherently. He had never loved Sukey, even for a moment. He could not help admiring her physical beauty. She was a perfect specimen of her type, and her too affectionate heart and joyous, never-to-be-ruffled good humor made her a delightful companion, well fitted to arouse tenderness. Add virtue and sound principle to Sukey's other attractions, and she would have made a wife good enough for a king--too good, far too good. For the lack of those qualities she was not to blame, since they spring from heredity or environment. Sukey's parents were good, honest folk, but wholly unfitted to bring up a daughter. Sukey at fourteen was quite mature, and gave evidence of beauty so marked as to attract men twice her age, who ”kept company” with her, as the phrase went, sat with her till late in the night, took her out to social gatherings, and--G.o.d help the girl, she was not to blame. She did only as others did, as her parents permitted; and her tender little heart, so p.r.o.ne to fondness, proved to be a curse rather than the blessing it would have been if properly directed and protected. Mentally, physically, and temperamentally she was very close to nature, and nature, in the human species, needs curbing.
The question of who should bear the blame did not enter into Dic's perturbed cogitations. He took it all upon his own broad shoulders, and did not seek to hide his sin under the cloak of that poor extenuation, ”she did tempt me.” If Rita's love should turn to hatred (he thought it would), he would marry Sukey and bear his burden through life; but if Rita's love could withstand this shock, Sukey's troubles would go unrighted by him. Those were the only conclusions he could reach. His keen remorse was the result of his sin; and while he pitied Sukey, he did not trust her.
Next morning Dic saw Miss Tousy and took the stage for home. His first visit was to Billy Little, whom he found distributing letters back of the post-office boxes.
”How is Rita?” asked Billy.
”She's much better,” returned Dic. ”Miss Tousy tells me the fever has left her, and the doctors say she will soon recover. I wanted to see her before I left, but of course that could not be; and--and the truth is I could not have looked her in the face.”
”Why?” Billy was busy throwing letters.
”Because--because, Billy Little, I am at last convinced that I represent the most perfect combination of knave and fool that ever threw heaven away and walked open-eyed into h.e.l.l.”