Part 35 (2/2)
”Oh, I don't know,” replied the postmaster, continuing to toss letters into their respective boxes. ”I ... don't know. The world has seen some rare (Mrs. Sarah c.u.mmins) combinations of that sort.” After a long pause he continued: ”I ... I don't believe (Peter Davidson) I don't believe ... there is much knave in you. Fool, perhaps (Atkinson, David. He doesn't live here), in plenty--.” Another pause, while three or four letters were distributed. ”Suppose you say that the formula--the chemical formula--of your composition would stand (Peter Smith) F_{9} K_{2}. Of course, at times, you are all M, which stands for man, but (Jane Anderson, Jane Anderson. Jo John's wife, I suppose)--”
”You will not jest, Billy Little, when you have heard all.”
”I am not ... jesting now. Go back ... into my apartments. I'll lock the door (Samuel Richardson. Great writer) and come back to you (Leander Cross. Couldn't read a signboard. What use writing letters to him?) when I have handed (Mrs. Margarita Bays. They don't know she has moved to Indianapolis, d.a.m.n her)--when I have handed out the mail.”
Dic went back to the bedroom, and Billy opened the delivery window. The little crowd scrambled for their letters as if they feared a delay of a moment or two would fade the ink, and when the mail had been distributed the calm postmaster went back to hear Dic's troubles. At no time in that young man's life had his troubles been so heavy. He feared Billy Little's scorn and biting sarcasm, though he well knew that in the end he would receive sympathy and good advice. The relation between Dic and Billy was not only that of intimate friends.h.i.+p; it was almost like that between father and son. Billy felt that it was not only his privilege, but his duty, to be severe with the young man when necessity demanded.
When Dic was a boy he lost his father, and Billy Little had stood as subst.i.tute for, lo, these many years.
When Billy entered the room, Dic was lost amid the flood of innumerable emotions, chief among which were the fear that he had lost Rita and the dread of her contempt.
Billy went to the fireplace, poked the fire, lighted his pipe, and leaned against the mantel-shelf.
”Well, what's the trouble now?” asked Brummel's friend.
”Read this,” answered Dic, handing him Sukey's letter.
Billy went to the window, rested his elbows upon the piano, put on his ”other gla.s.ses,” and read aloud:--
”'DEAR DIC: I'm in so much trouble.'” (”Maxwelton's braes,”
exclaimed Billy. The phrase at such a time was almost an oath.) ”'Please come to me at once.'” (Billy turned his face toward Dic and gazed at him for thirty long seconds.) ”'Come at once. Oh, please come to me, Dic. I will kill myself if you don't. I cannot sleep nor eat. I am in such agony I wish I were dead; but I trust you, and I am sure you will save me. I know you will. If you could know how wretched and unhappy I am, if you could see me tossing all night in bed, and crying and praying, you certainly would pity me.
Oh, G.o.d, I will go crazy. I know I will. Come to me, Dic, and save me. I have never said that I loved you--you have never asked me--but you know it more surely than words can tell.'
”'SUKEY.'”
When Billy had finished reading the letter he spoke two words, as if to himself,--”Poor Rita.” His first thought was of her. Her pain was his pain; her joy was his joy; her agony was his torture. Then he seated himself on the stool and gazed across the piano out the window. After a little time his fingers began to wander over the keys. Soon the wandering fingers began to strike chords, and the random chords grew into soft, weird improvisations; then came a few chords from the beloved, melodious ”Messiah”; but as usual ”Annie Laurie” soon claimed her own, and Billy was lost, for the time, to Dic and to the world.
Meanwhile Dic sat by the fireplace awaiting his friend's pleasure, and to say that he suffered, but poorly tells his condition.
”Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Billy, suddenly turning on the stool. Dic did not answer, and Billy continued: ”d.a.m.ned pretty mess you've made. Proud of yourself, I suppose?”
”No.”
”Lady-killer, eh?”
”No.”
”Oh, perhaps it wasn't your fault, Adam? You are not to blame? She tempted you?”
”I only am to blame.”
”'Deed if I believe you have brains enough to know who is to blame.”
”Yes, I have that much, but no more. Oh, Billy Little, don't--don't.”
Billy turned upon the piano-stool, and again began to play.
Dic had known that Billy would be angry, but he was not prepared for this avalanche of wrath. Billy had grown desperately fond of Rita. No one could know better than he the utter folly and hopelessness of his pa.s.sion; but the realization of folly and a sense of hopelessness do not shut folly out of the heart. If they did, there would be less suffering in the world. Billy's love was a strange combination of that which might be felt by a lover and a father. He had not hoped or desired ever to possess the girl, and his love for Dic had made it not only easy, but joyous to surrender her to him. Especially was he happy over the union because it would insure her happiness. His love was so unselfish that he was willing to give up not only the girl, but himself, his blood, his life, for her sweet sake. With all his love for Dic, that young man was chiefly important as a means to Rita's happiness, and now he had become worse than useless because he was a source of wretchedness to her. You may understand, then, the reason for Billy's extreme anger against this young man, who since childhood had been his friend, almost as dear as if he were his son.
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