Part 38 (2/2)

When she returned she said:--

”I'm sorry to hear of the trouble between you and Rita, and am determined it shall be made up at once.”

”I fear that is impossible, Miss Tousy,” returned Dic, sadly. ”She will never forgive me. I should not were I in her place. I do not expect it and am not worth it.”

”But she will forgive you; she will not be able to hold out against you five minutes if you crowd her. Trust my word. I know more about girls than you do; but, above all, I know Rita.”

Miss Tousy watched him as he stood before her, hanging his head, a very handsome picture of abject humility. After a moment of silence Dic answered:--

”Miss Tousy, the truth is, I have lost all self-respect, and know that I am both a fool and a--a criminal. Rita will not, cannot, and ought not to forgive me. I am entirely unworthy of her. She is gentle and tender as she can be; but she has more spirit than you would suspect. I have seen her under the most trying circ.u.mstances, and with all her gentleness she is very strong. I have lost her and must give her up.”

”You'll be no such fool,” cried Miss Tousy; ”but some one is knocking at the front door. Be seated, please.” She opened the front hall door, kissed ”some one” who had knocked, and said to ”some one”:--

”Step into the parlor, please. I will be with you soon.” Then she closed the parlor door and basely fled.

Dic sprang to his feet, and Rita, turning backward toward the door, stood trembling, her hand on the k.n.o.b.

”Don't go, Rita,” said Dic, huskily. ”I did not know you were coming here. I give you my word, I did not set a trap for you. Miss Tousy will tell you I had no thought of seeing you here. I wanted to see you, but I would not try to entrap you. I intended going to your house openly that you might refuse to see me if you wished; but since you are here, please--oh, Rita, for G.o.d's sake, stay and hear me. I am almost crazed by what I have suffered, though I deserve it all, all. You don't know what I have to say.” She partly opened the door; but he stepped quickly to her side, shut the door, and spoke almost angrily:--

”You shall hear me, and after I have spoken, if you wish, you may go, but not until then.”

He unclasped her hand from the k.n.o.b, and, using more of his great strength than he knew, led her to a chair and brought another for himself.

The touch of command in Dic's manner sent a strange thrill to the girl's heart, and she learned in one brief moment that all her sophistry had been in vain; that her love was not dead, and could not be killed. That knowledge, however, did not change her resolution not to forgive him.

You see, there was a touch of the Chief Justice in the girl.

”I want you to hear me, Rita, and, if you can, I want you to forgive me, and then I want you to forget me,” said Dic.

The words ”forget me” were not what she had expected to hear. She had supposed he would make a plea for forgiveness and beg to be taken back; but the words ”forget me,” seeming to lead in another direction, surprised her. With all her resolutions she was not prepared to forget.

She lifted her eyes for a fleeting glance, and could not help thinking that the memory of his face had been much less effective than its presence. The tones of his voice, too, were stronger and sweeter at close range than she had remembered. In short, Dic by her side and Dic twenty-five miles away were two different propositions--the former a very dangerous and irresistible one, indeed. Still, she would not forgive him. She could not and would not forget him; but she would shut her eyes to the handsome face, she would close her ears to the deep, strong voice, she would harden her heart to his ardent love, and, alas!

to her own. She insisted to herself that she no longer loved him, and never, never would.

Every word that Sukey had ever spoken concerning Dic, every meeting of which she knew that had ever taken place between him and the dimpler,--in fact, all the trivial events that had happened between her lover and the girl who was trying to steal him from her, including the occurrence at Scott's social,--came vividly back to Rita at that moment with exaggerated meaning, and told her she had for years been a poor, trusting dupe. She would listen to Dic because he was the stronger and could compel her to remain in the room; but when he should finish, she would go and would never speak to Miss Tousy again.

”This is a terrible calamity I have brought upon us,” said Dic, speaking with difficulty and constraint. ”It is like blindness or madness, and means wretchedness for life to you and me.”

Still the unexpected direction, thought Rita, but she answered out of her firm resolve:--

”I shall not be wretched, for I do not--don't care. The time was when I did care very, very much; but now I--” She did not finish the sentence, and her conscience reproached her, for she knew she was uttering a big, black lie.

Dic had expected scorn, and had thought he would be able to bear it without flinching. He had fortified himself days before by driving all hope out of his heart, but (as we say and feel when our dear ones die) he was not prepared, even though he well knew what was coming. Her words stunned him for a moment, but he soon pulled himself together, and his unselfish love brought a feeling akin to relief: a poor, dry sort of joy, because he had learned that she did not suffer the pain that was torturing him. No mean part of his pain was because of Rita's suffering.

If she did not suffer, he could endure the penalty of his sin with greater fort.i.tude. This slight relief came to him, not because his love was weak, but because his unselfishness was strong.

”If I could really believe that you do not care,” he said, struggling with a torturing lump in his throat, ”if I could surely know that you do not suffer the pain I feel, I might endure it--G.o.d in heaven! I suppose I might endure it. But when I think that I have brought suffering to you, I am almost wild.”

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