"Well, I do know it. I recognized you when you climbed out the window, and did not shoot you because you were Rita's brother. I said nothing of the robbery for the same reason, but I made a mistake. Leave my store. Get out of the state at once. If you are here Christmas Day, I'll send you where you belong."
Tom took the fifty dollars and the advice; and the next day--the day before Christmas, the day set for Rita's wedding--Sukey's father entered Billy's store, as I have already told you, in great agitation.
After Yates had talked to Billy for three or four minutes, the latter hurriedly closed the store door, donned the Brummel coat, and went across the road to the inn where the Indianapolis coach was waiting, and took his place.
At six o'clock that evening Dic arrived at Billy Little's store from his southern expedition. Finding the store door locked, he got the key from the landlord of the inn, in whose charge Billy had left it, went to the post-office, and rejoiced to find a letter from Rita. He eagerly opened it--and rode home more dead than alive. Rita's wedding would take place that night at eight o'clock. The thing was hopeless. He showed the letter to his mother, and asked that he might be left alone with his sorrow. Mrs. Bright kissed him and retired to her bed in the adjoining room, leaving Dic sitting upon the hearth log beside the fire.
Dic did not blame Rita. He loved her more dearly than ever before, if that were possible, because she was capable of making the awful sacrifice. He well knew what she would suffer. The thought of her anguish drowned the pain he felt on his own account, and his suffering for her sake seemed more than he could bear. Billy Little, he supposed, had gone to the wedding, and for the first time in Dic's life he was angry with that steadfast friend. Dic knew that the sudden plunge from joy to anguish had brought a benumbing shock, and while he sat beside the fire he realized that his suffering had only begun--that his real anguish would come with the keener consciousness of reaction.
At four o'clock that same afternoon Billy was seated in Rita's parlor, whispering to her. "My dear girl, I bring you good news. You can't save Tom. He forged Wallace's name to a note for four hundred dollars, and passed it at the bank six weeks ago. He wanted to borrow the money from me to pay the note, but I did not have it. I gave him fifty dollars, and he has run away--left the state for no one knows where. He carried off two of Yates's horses, and, best of all, he carried off Sukey. All reasons for sacrificing yourself to this man Williams are now removed, save only your father's debt. That, Fisher tells me, has been renewed for sixty days, and at the end of that time your father and Fisher will again have it to face. You could not save them, Rita, if you were to marry half the men in Boston. Even if this debt were paid--cancelled --instead of renewed, your father would soon be as badly off as ever. A bank couldn't keep him in business, Rita. Every one he deals with robs and cheats him. He's a good man, Rita, kind, honest, and hard working, but he is fit only to farm. I hate to say it, but in many respects your father is a great fool, very much like Tom. It is easier to save ten knaves than one fool. A leopard is a leopard; a nigger is a nigger. God can change the spots of the one and the color of the other, but I'm blessed if I believe even God can unmake a fool. Now my dear girl, don't throw away your happiness for life in a hopeless effort to save your father from financial ruin."
"But I have given my word, Billy Little," replied the girl, to whom a promise was a sacred thing. "I believe my father and mother would die if I were to withdraw. I must go on, I must; it is my doom. It is only three hours--oh, my God! have mercy on me--" and she broke down, weeping piteously. Soon she continued: "The guests are all invited, and oh, I can't escape, I can't! I have given my word; I am lost. Thank you, dear friend, thank you, for your effort to help me; but it is too late, too late!"
"No, it is not too late," continued Billy; "but in three hours it will be too late, and you will curse yourself because you did not listen to me."
"I know I shall; I know it only too well," replied the weeping girl. "I will not ask you to remain for the--the tragedy."
"I would not witness it," cried Billy, "for all the gold in the world!
When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I've said. Do not wait until it is too late, but come with me; come now with me, Rita, and let the consequences be what they will. They cannot be so evil as those which will follow your marriage. You do not know. You do not understand. Come with me, girl, come with me. Do not hesitate. When I have left you, it will be too late, too late. God only can help you; and if you walk open-eyed into this trouble, He will _not_ help you. He helps those who help themselves."
"No, Billy Little, no; I cannot go with you. I have given my word. I have cast the die."
With these words Billy arose, took up his hat, stick, and gloves, went out into the hall, and opened the front door to go.
"When I'm gone, Rita, remember what I have said and what I'm about to say, and even though the minister be standing before you, until you have spoken the fatal words, it will not be too late. You are an innocent girl, ignorant of many things in life. Still, every girl, if she but stops to think, has innate knowledge of much that she is supposed not to know. When I'm gone, Rita, _think_, girl, _think_, think of this night; this night after the ceremony, when all the guests have gone and you are alone with him. Kill yourself, Rita, if you will, if there is no other way out of it--kill yourself, but don't marry that man. For the sake of God's love, don't marry him. Death will be sweet compared to that which you will suffer if you do. Good-by, Rita. Think of this night, girl; think of this night."
"Good-by, Billy Little, good-by," cried the girl, while tears streamed over her cheeks. As she closed the door behind him she covered her face with her hands and moaned: "I cannot marry him. How can I kill myself?
How can I escape?"
Meanwhile Madam Jeffreys had donned her black silk dress, made expressly for the occasion, and was a very busy, happy woman indeed. She did not know that Tom had run away, but was expecting him home from Blue by the late stage, which would arrive about seven o'clock.
Billy left for home on the five o'clock stage, but before he left he had a talk with Rita's father.
Soon after Billy's departure, Miss Tousy and a few young lady friends came to assist at the bride's toilet. It was a doleful party of bridesmaids in Rita's room, you may be sure; but by seven o'clock she was dressed. When the task was finished, she said to her friends:--
"I am very tired. I have an hour before the ceremony, and I should like to sit alone by the window in the dark to rest and think. Please leave me to myself. I will lock the door, and, Miss Tousy, please allow no one to disturb me."
"No one shall disturb you, my dear," answered Miss Tousy, weeping as she kissed her. Then the young ladies left the room, and Rita locked the door.
Ten minutes later Mr. Bays entered from Tom's room, which was immediately back of Rita's. A stairway descended from Tom's room to the back yard.
[Illustration: "'HERE,' REPLIED THE GIRL."]
Mr. Bays kissed Rita, and hastily whispered: "My great-coat, cap, and gloves are on Tom's bed. Buck is saddled in the stable. Don't ever let your mother know I did this. Good-by. I would rather die than see you marry this man and lose Dic. Don't let your mother know," and he hurried from the room.
Rita went hurriedly into Tom's room and put on the great-coat, made of coonskins, a pair of squirrel-skin gloves, and a heavy beaver cap with curtains that fell almost to her shoulders. She also drew over her shoes a pair of heavy woollen stockings; and thus arrayed, she ran down the stairway to the back yard. Flurrying to the stable, she led out "Old Buck," Mr. Bays's riding horse, and galloped forth in the dark, cold night for a twenty-six mile ride to Billy Little.
Soon after Rita's departure the guests began to assemble. At ten minutes before eight came Williams. Upon his arrival, Mrs. Bays insisted that Rita should be called, so she and Miss Tousy went to Rita's door and knocked. The knock was repeated; still no answer. Then Mrs. Bays determined to enter Rita's room through Tom's,--and I will draw a veil over the scene of consternation, confusion, and rage that ensued.
Near the hour of two o'clock in the morning another scene of this drama was enacted, twenty-six miles away. Billy Little was roused from his dreams--black nightmares they had been--by a knocking on his store door, and when he sat up in bed to listen, he heard Rita's voice calling:--
"Billy Little, let me in."
Billy ran to unlock the front door, crying: "Come in, come in, God bless my soul, come in. Maxwelton's braes _are_ bonny, bonny, bonny. Tell me, are you alone?"
"Yes, Billy, I'm alone, and I fear they will follow me. Hide me somewhere. But you'll freeze without your coat. Go and--"
"Bless me, I haven't my coat and waistcoat on. Excuse me; excuse--Maxwelton's--I'll be out immediately." And the little old fellow scampered to his bedroom to complete his toilet. Then he lighted a candle, placed wood on the fire, and called Rita back to his sanctum sanctorum. She was very cold; but a spoonful of whiskey, prescribed by Dr. Little, with a drop of water and a pinch of sugar, together with a bit of cheese and a biscuit from the store, and the great crackling fire on the hearth, soon brought warmth to her heart and color to her cheeks.
"What are you going to do with me now you've got me? They will come here first to find me," she asked, laughing nervously.
"We'll go to Dic," said Billy, after a moment's meditation. "We'll go to Dic as soon as you are rested."
"Oh, Billy Little, I--I can't go to him. You know I'm not--not--you know."
"Not married? Is that what you mean?"
"Yes."
"I'm mighty thankful you are not. Dic's mother is with him. It will be all perfectly proper. But never mind; I have another idea. I'll think it over as we ride."
After Rita had rested, Billy donned the Beau Brummel coat and saddled his horse, and the pair started up Blue to awaken Dic. He needed no awakening, for he was sitting where we left him, on the hearth, gazing into a bed of embers.
When our runaway couple reached Dic's house, Billy hitched his horse, told Rita to knock at the front door, and took her horse to the stable.
When Dic heard the knock at that strange hour of the night, he called:--
"Who's there?"
"Rita."
Dic began to fear his troubles had affected his mind; but when he heard a voice unmistakably hers calling, "Please let me in; I have brought you a Christmas gift," he knew that he was sane, and that either Rita or her wraith was at the door. When she entered, clad in her wedding gown, coonskin coat and beaver cap, he again began to doubt his senses and stood in wonder, looking at her.
"Aren't you glad to see me, Dic?" she asked, laughing. Still he did not respond, and she continued, "I have ridden all night to bring you a Christmas gift."
"A Christmas gift?" he repeated, hardly conscious of the words he spoke, so great had been the shock of his awakening from a dream of pain to a reality of bliss. "Where--where is it?"
"Here," replied the girl, throwing off the great-coat and pressing her hands upon her bosom to indicate herself. Then Dic, in a flood of perceptive light and returning consciousness, caught the priceless Christmas gift to his heart without further question.
In a moment Billy Little entered the door that Rita had closed.
"Here, here, break away," cried Billy, taking Rita and Dic each by the right hand. As he did so Dic's mother entered from the adjoining room, and Billy greeted her with "Howdy," but was too busy to make explanations.
"Now face me," said that little gentleman, speaking in tones of command to Rita and Dic.
"Clasp your right hands." The hands were clasped. "Now listen to me.
Diccon Bright, do you take this woman whom you hold by the hand to be your wedded wife?"