Part 39 (1/2)

The girl's hands were folded demurely upon her lap, and she was gazing down at them. She lifted her eyes for an instant, and there was an unwonted hardness in them as she answered: ”You need not waste any sympathy on me. I don't want it.”

”Is it really true, Rita,” he asked, ”that you no longer care for me?

Was your love a mere garment you could throw off at will?” He paused, but Rita making no reply, he continued: ”It wounds my vanity to learn that I so greatly overestimated your love for me, and I can hardly believe that you speak the truth, but--but I hope--I almost hope you do.

Every sense of honor I possess tells me I must accept the wages of my sin and marry Sukey Yates, even though--”

Suddenly a change came over the scene. The girl who had been so pa.s.sive and cold at once became active and very warm. She sprang to her feet, panting with excitement. Resolutions and righteous indignation were scattered to the four winds by the tremendous shock of his words. Sukey at last had stolen him. That thought seemed to be burning itself into the very heart of her consciousness.

”You--you marry Sukey Yates!” she cried, breathing heavily and leaning toward Dic, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, ”you _marry_ her?”

The question was almost a wail.

”But if you no longer care there can be no reason why I should not,”

said Dic, hardly knowing in the whirl of his surprise what he was saying.

Rita thought of the letter to Tom, and all the sympathetic instincts of her nature sprang up to protect Dic, and to save him from Sukey's wicked designs.

”Oh,” she cried, falling back into her chair, ”you surely did not believe me!”

”And you do care?” asked Dic, almost stunned by her sudden change of front. Rita's conduct had always been so sedate and sensible that he did not suppose she was possessed of ordinary feminine weaknesses.

”Oh, Dic,” she replied, ”I never thought you would desert me.”

_In_consistency may also be a jewel.

Dic concluded he was an incarnate mistake. Whichever way he turned, he seemed to be wrong.

”I desert you?” he exclaimed. ”But you returned my ring and did not even answer my letter, and now your scorn--”

”What else could you expect?” asked the girl, in a pa.s.sionate flow of tears.

”I don't know what I expected, but I certainly did not expect this,”

answered Dic, musing on the blessed fault of inconsistency that dwells in every normal woman's breast. ”I did not expect this, or I should have acted differently toward her after you returned the ring. I would not have--I--I--G.o.d help me!” and he buried his face in his hands.

”You would not have done what, Dic? Tell me all.” Her heart came to him in his trouble. He had sinned, but he was suffering, and that she could not bear.

The low, soft tones of her voice soothed him, and he answered: ”I would not have allowed her to believe I intended marrying her. I did not tell her in words that I would, but--I can't tell you. I can't speak.” He saw Rita's face turn pale, and though his words almost choked him, he continued, ”I suppose I must pay the penalty of my sin.”

He gently put the girl from him, and went to the window, where he leaned, gazing into the street. She also rose, and stood waiting for him to speak. After a long pause she called his name,--

”Dic!”

When he turned she was holding out her arms to him, and the next moment they were round his neck.

After a blank hour of almost total silence in the parlor, Miss Tousy came to the door and knocked. She had listened at the door several times during the hour; but, hearing no enlightening words or sounds, she had retreated in good order.

Allowing a moment to elapse after knocking, Miss Tousy called:--

”Are you still there?”