"Yes," cried the others; "if you can't play fair, get out of the game."

The order of events was immediately changed, but occasionally Sukey broke away from time-honored precedent and repeated her favors to Dic.

Doug was rapidly growing as "sick" as his most inveterate enemy could have desired. There was another person in the room who was also very wretched--one whom Dic would not have pained for all the Sukey Potiphars in Egypt. The other person was not only pained, she was grieved, confused, frightened, desperate. She feared that she would cry out and ask Dic not to favor Sukey. She did not know what to do, nor what she might be led to do, if matters continued on their present course.

Soon after Tom's reprimand, Sukey found the duty of dropping the handkerchief again devolving upon her pretty self. She longed with all her heart to drop it behind Dic; but, fearing the wrath of her friends, she concluded to choose the man least apt to arouse antagonism in Dic's breast. She would choose one whom he knew she despised, and would trust to luck and her swift little feet to take her around the circle before the dropee could catch her.

Wetmore had been an active member, though a pa.s.sive partic.i.p.ant, in the game, since its beginning. When a young lady "It" walked back of him, he would eagerly watch her approach, and when she pa.s.sed him, as all did, he would turn his face after her and hope for better things from the next. Repeated disappointments had lulled his vigil, and when Sukey, the girl of all others for whom he had not hoped, dropped the sacred linen behind his reverend form, he was so startled that he did not seize the precious moment. He was standing beside Doug Hill, and the handkerchief fell almost between the two. It was clearly intended for his reverence; but when he failed instantly to meet the requirements of the situation, the Douglas, most alert of men, resolved to appropriate the opportunity to himself. At the same moment Brother W. also determined to embrace it, and, if possible, "It." Each stooped at the same instant, and their heads collided.

"Let it alone, parson, it's for me," cried the Douglas.

Parson did not answer, but reached out his hand for the coveted prize.

Thereupon Douglas pushed him backward, causing him to be seated with great violence upon the floor. At that unfortunate moment Sukey, who had taken speed from eagerness, completed her trip around the circle, and being unable to stop, fell headlong over the figure of the self-made parson. She had not seen Doug's part in the transaction, and being much disturbed in mind and dress, turned upon poor Wetmore and flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, "You fool."

When we consider the b.u.t.tons in the offering, together with Sukey's unjust and biting words, we cannot help believing that Wetmore had been born under an unlucky star.

One's partner in this game was supposed to favor one now and then, when opportunity presented; but Wetmore's partner, Miss Tompkinson, having waited in vain for favors from that gentleman, quitted the game when Sukey called him, "You fool." Wetmore thought, of course, he also would be compelled to drop out; but, wonder of wonders, Rita, the most beautiful girl in the room, rose to her feet and said:--

"I'll take your place, Miss Tompkinson." She knew that if she were in the game, Sukey's reign would end, and she had reached the point of perturbation where she was willing to do anything to prevent the recurrence of certain painful happenings. She knew that she should not take part in the game,--it was not for such as her,--but she was confused, desperate, and "didn't care." She modestly knew her own attractions. Every young man in the circle was a friend of Tom's, and had at some time manifested a desire to be a friend to Tom's sister. Tom was fairly popular for his own sake, but his exceeding radiance was borrowed. The game could not be very wicked, thought Rita, since it was encouraged by the church; but even if it were wicked, she determined to take possession of her own in the person of Dic. Out of these several impulses and against her will came the words, "I'll take your place, Miss Tompkinson," and almost before she was aware of what she had done she was standing with fiercely throbbing pulse, a member of the forbidden circle.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "SHE FLUNG AT THE WORTHY SHEPHERD THE OPPROBRIOUS WORDS, 'YOU FOOL.'"]

As Rita had expected, the handkerchief soon fell behind her, and without the least trouble she caught the young fellow who had dropped it, for the man did not live who could run from her. The pledge, a pocket-knife, was deposited, and Rita became a trembling, terrified "It." What to do with the handkerchief she did not know, but she started desperately around the circle. After the fourth or fifth trip the players began to laugh. Dic's heart was doing a tremendous business, and he felt that life would be worthless if the handkerchief should fall from Rita's hand behind any one but him. Meanwhile the frightened girl walked round and round the circle, growing more confused with every trip.

"Drop it, Rita," cried Doug Hill, "or you'll drop."

"She's getting tired," said another.

"See how warm she is," remarked gentle Tom.

"Somebody fan her," whispered Sukey.

"I don't believe I want to play," said Rita, whose cheeks were burning.

A chorus of protests came from all save Dic; so she took up her burden again and of course must drop it. After another long weary walk an inspiration came to her; she would drop the handkerchief behind Tom. She did so. Tom laughed, and all agreed with one accord that it was against the rules of the game to drop the handkerchief behind a brother or sister. Then Rita again took up her burden, which by that time was a heavy one indeed. She had always taken her burdens to Dic, so she took this one to him and dropped it.

"I knew she would," screamed every one, and Rita started in dreadful earnest on her last fatal trip around the circle. A moment before the circle had been too small, but now it seemed interminable, and poor Rita found herself in Dic's strong arms before she was halfway home. She almost hated him for catching her. She did not take into consideration the facts that she had invited him and that it would have been ungallant had he permitted her to escape, but above all, she did not know the desire in his heart. She had surprised and disappointed him by entering the game; but since it was permitted, he would profit by the surprise and s.n.a.t.c.h a joyful moment from his disappointment. But another surprise awaited him. When a young lady was caught a certain degree of resistance, purely for form's sake, was expected, but usually the young lady would feel aggrieved, or would laugh at the young man were the resistance taken seriously. When Dic caught Rita there was one case, at least, where the resistance was frantically real. She covered her face with her hands and supposed he would make no effort to remove them. She was mistaken, he acted upon the accepted theories of the game. She was a baby in strength compared with Dic, and he easily held her hands while he bent her head backward till her upturned face was within easy reach.

"Don't kiss me," she cried.

There was no sham in her words, and Dic, recognizing the fact, released her at once and she walked sullenly to a chair. According to the rude etiquette of the time, she had insulted him.

There had been so many upheavals in the game that the trouble between Dic and Rita brought it to a close.

Dic was wounded, and poor Rita felt that now she had driven him from her forever. Her eyes followed him about the room with wistful longing, and although they were eloquent enough to have told their piteous little story to one who knew anything about the language of great tender eyes, they spoke nothing but reproachfulness to Dic. He did not go near her, but after a time she went to him and said:--

"I believe I will go home; but I am not afraid to go alone, and you need not go with me--that is, if you don't want to."

"I do want to go with you," he responded. "I would not let you ride by yourself. Even should nothing harm you, the howling of a wolf would frighten you almost to death."

She had no intention of riding home alone. She knew she would die from fright before she had ridden a hundred yards into the black forest, so she said demurely:--

"Of course, if you will go with me after--"

"I would go with you after anything," he answered, but she thought he spoke with a touch of anger.

Had Dic ever hoped to gain more than a warm friendship from the girl that hope had been shattered for all time, and never, never, never would he obtrude his love upon her again. As a matter of fact, he had not obtruded it upon her even once, but he had thought of doing it so many times that he felt as if he had long been an importunate suitor.

UNDER THE ELM CANOPY

CHAPTER V

UNDER THE ELM CANOPY

Dic and Rita rode home through the forest in silence. His anger soon evaporated, and he was glad she had refused to pay the forfeit. He would be content with the friendship that had been his since childhood, and would never again risk losing it. What right had he, a great, uncouth "clodhopper," to expect even friendship from so beautiful and perfect a creature as the girl who rode beside him; and, taking it all in all, the fault, thought he, lay entirely at his door. In this sombre mood he resolved that he would remain unmarried all his life, and would be content with the incompleted sweet of loving. He would put a guard upon himself, his acts, his words, his pa.s.sion. The latter was truly as n.o.ble and pure as man ever felt for woman, but it should not be allowed to estrange his friend. She should never know it; no, never, never, never.

Rita's cogitations were also along the wrong track. During her silent ride homeward the girl was thinking with an earnestness and a rapidity that had never before been developed in her brain. She was, at times, almost unconscious that Dic was riding beside her, but she was vividly conscious of the fact that she would soon be home and that he also would be there. She determined to do something before parting from him to make amends for her conduct at the social. But what should she do? Hence the earnest and rapid intellection within the drooping head. She did not regret having refused to kiss Dic. She would, under like circ.u.mstances, again act in the same manner. She regretted the circ.u.mstances. To her, a kiss should be a holy, sacred thing, and in her heart she longed for the time when it would be her duty and her privilege to give her lips to the one man. But kissing games seemed to her little less than open and public shame.

She could not, for obvious reasons, tell Dic she was sorry she had refused him, and she certainly would not mend matters by telling him she was glad. Still less could she permit him to leave her in his present state of mind. All together it was a terrible dilemma. If she could for only one moment have a man's privilege to speak, she thought, it would all be very simple. But she could not speak. She could do little more than look, and although she could do that well, she knew from experience that the language of her eyes was a foreign tongue to Dic.

When they reached home, Dic lifted Rita from her saddle and stabled her horse. When he came from the barn she was holding his horse and waiting for him. He took the rein from her hands, saying:--

"It seems almost a pity to waste such a night as this in the house. I believe one might read by the light of the moon."

"Yes," murmured the girl, hanging her head, while she meditatively smoothed the gra.s.s with her foot.

"It's neither warm nor cold--just pleasant," continued Dic.

"No," she responded very softly.

"But we must sleep," he ventured to a.s.sert.

She would not contradict the statement. She was silent.

"If the days could be like this night, work would be a pleasure,"

observed Dic, desperately.

"No," came the reply, hardly louder than a breath. She was not thinking of the weather, but Dic stuck faithfully to the blessed topic.

"It may rain soon," he remarked confusedly. There was not a cloud in sight.

"Yes," breathed the pretty figure, smoothing the gra.s.s with her foot.

"But--but, I rather think it will not," he said.

The girl was silent. She didn't care if it snowed. She longed for him to drop the subject of the weather and to say something that would give her an opportunity to speak. Her manner, however, was most una.s.suring, and convinced Dic that he had offended beyond forgiveness, while his distant, respectful formality and persistency in the matter of the weather almost convinced the girl that he was lost to her forever. Thus they stood before each other, as many others have done, a pair of helpless fools within easy reach of paradise. Dic's straightforward habits of thought and action came to his aid, however, and he determined to make at least one more effort to regain the girl's friendly regard.