A Forest Hearth. Charles Major
angry at me because you took hold of her. There can be no harm in taking hold of any one, I'm sure, if you choose to do so; but why one should do it, I don't know, and I'm sure I don't care."
No ex post facto resolution could cure that lie, though of course it is a privileged one to a girl.
Dic made no reply, save to remark: "I'll see Miss Sukey to-morrow. If I wanted to 'take hold' of her, as she calls it, I would do so, but—but I'll see her to-morrow."
The answer startled Rita. She did not want to be known as a tale-bearer. Especially did she object in this particular case; therefore she said:—
"You may see her if you wish, but you shall not speak to her of what I have told you. She would think—"
"Let her think what she chooses," he replied. "I have never 'taken hold' of her in my life. Lord knows, I might if I wanted to. All the other boys boast that they take turn about, but—. She would be a fool to tell if it were true, and a story-teller if not. So I'll settle the question to-morrow, and for all time."
A deal of trouble might have been saved had Rita permitted him to make the settlement with Sukey, but she did not. The infinite potency of little things is one of the paradoxes of life.
"No, you shall not speak of this matter to her," she said, moving close to him upon the log and putting her hand upon his arm coaxingly. "Promise me you will not."
He would have promised to stop breathing had she asked it in that mood. It was the first he had ever seen of it, and he was pleased, although, owing to an opaqueness of mind due to his condition, it told him nothing save that his old-time friend was back again.
"If you tell her," continued the girl, "she will be angry with me, and I have had so much trouble of late I can't bear any more."
At last she was on the straight road bowling along like a mail coach. "After I spoke to you as I did the other night—you know, when Tom—I could not eat or sleep. Oh, I was in so much trouble! You and I had always been such real friends, and you have always been so good to me—" a rare little lump was rapidly and alarmingly growing in her throat—"I have never had even an unkind look from you, and to speak to you as I did—oh, Dic—" the lump grew too large for easy utterance, and she stopped speaking. Dic was wise in not pursuing the ebb, but he was foolish in not catching the flood. But perhaps if he would wait, it might ingulf him of its own accord, and then, ah, then, the sweetness of it!
"Never think of it again," he said soothingly. "Your words hurt me at the time, but your kind, frank letter cured the pain, and I intended never to speak of it. But since you have spoken, I—I—"
The girl was frightened, although eager to hear what he would say, so she remained silent during Dic's long pause, and at length he said, "I thank you for the letter."
A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment came from her breast.
"It gave me great pleasure, for it made me know that you were still my friend," said Dic, "and that your words were meant for Tom, and not for me."
"Indeed, not for you," said Rita, still struggling with the lump in her throat.
"Let us never speak of it again," said Dic. "I'm glad it happened. It puts our friendship on a firmer basis than ever before."
"That would be rather hard, to do, wouldn't it?" asked the girl, laughing contentedly. "We have been such good friends ever since I was a baby—since before I can remember."
The direct road was becoming too smooth for Rita, and she began to fear she would not be able to stop.
"Let us make this bargain," said Dic. "When you want to say anything unkind, say it to me. I'll not misunderstand."
"Very well," she replied laughingly, "the privilege may be a great comfort to me at times. I, of course, dare not scold mother. If I look cross at Tom, mother scolds me for a week, and I could not speak unkindly to poor father. You see, I have no one to scold, and I'm sure every one should have somebody to explode upon with impunity now and then. So I'll accept your offer, and you may expect—" There was a brief pause, after which she continued: "No, I'll not. Never again so long as I live. You, of all others, shall be safe from my ill temper," and she gave him her hand in confirmation of her words.
In all the world there was no breast freer from ill temper than hers; no heart more gentle, tender, and trustful. Her nature was like a burning spring. It was pure, cool, and limpid to its greatest depths, though there was fire in it.
Dic did not consider himself obliged to release Rita's hand at once, and as she evidently thought it would be impolite to withdraw it, there is no telling what mistakes might have happened had not Tom appeared upon the scene.
Tom seated himself beside Dic just as that young man dropped Rita's hand, and just as the young lady moved a little way toward her end of the log.
"You are home early," remarked Rita.
"Yes," responded Tom, "Doug Hill was there—the lubberly pumpkin-head."
No man of honor would remain in a young lady's parlor if at the time of his arrival she had another gentleman visitor unless upon the request of the young lady, and no insult so deep and deadly could be offered to the man in possession as the proffer of such a request by the young lady to the intruder.
After a few minutes of silence Tom remarked: "This night reminds me of the night I come from Cincinnati to Brookville on the canal-boat. Everything's so warm and clear like. I set out on top of the boat and seed the hills go by."
"Did the hills go by?" asked Rita, who had heard the story of Tom's Cincinnati trip many times.
"Well, they seemed to go by," answered Tom. "Of course, they didn't move. It was the boat. But I jest seed them move as plain as I see that cloud up yonder."
That Tom had not profited by Billy Little's training and his mother's mild corrections now and then (for the Chief Justice had never entirely lost the habits of better days), was easily discernible in his speech. Rita's English, like Dic's and Billy Little's, was corrupted in spots by evil communication; but Tom's—well, Tom was no small part of the evil communication itself.
Dic had heard the Cincinnati story many times, and when he saw symptoms of its recurrence, he rose and said:—
"Well, Tom, if you seed the hills go by, you'll seed me go by if you watch, for I'm going home," and with a good night he started up the river path, leaving Rita and her brother Tom seated on the log.
"So Doug Hill was there?" asked Rita.
"Yes," responded Tom; "and how any girl can let him kiss her, I don't know. His big yaller face reminds me of the under side of a mud-turtle."
"I hope Sukey doesn't allow him nor any one else to kiss her," cried Rita, with a touch of indignant remonstrance. Tom laughed as if to say that he could name at least one who enjoyed that pleasant privilege.
Rita was at that time only sixteen years old, and had many things to learn about the doings of her neighbors, which one would wish she might never know. The Chief Justice had at least one virtue: she knew how to protect her daughter. No young man had ever been permitted to "keep company" with Rita, and she and her mother wanted none. Dic, of course, had for years been a constant visitor; but he, as you know, was like one of the family. Aside from the habit of Dic's visits, and growing out of them, Madam Bays had dim outlines of a future purpose. Dic's father, who was dead, had been considered well-to-do among his neighbors. He had died seized of four "eighties," all paid for, and two-thirds cleared for cultivation. Eighty acres of cleared bottom land was looked upon as a fair farm. One might own a thousand acres of rich soil covered with as fine oak, walnut, and poplar as the world could produce and might still be a poor man, though the timber in these latter days would bring a fortune. Cleared land was wealth at the time of which I write, and in building their houses the settlers used woods from which nowadays furniture is made for royal palaces. Every man on Blue might have said with Louis XIV, "I am housed like a king." Cleared land was wealth, and Dic, upon his mother's death, would