Her Prairie Knight, Lonesome Land & The Uphill Climb: Complete Western Trilogy. B. M. Bower
for the one shiny penny till he was tired to death. And so he climbed up high, into a funny bed on a shelf, and rested. And when he was rested he couldn’t open the door, and he kicked and kicked, and then Be’trice came, and Mr. Cam’ron.
“And you said you’d help me find my one penny,” he reminded Keith, blinking solemnly at him from the chair. “And I want to shake hands wis your big, high pony. I’m going to buy him wis my six pennies. Be’trice said I could.”
Beatrice blushed, and Keith forgot where he was, for a minute, looking at her.
“Come and find my one shiny penny,” Dorman commanded, climbing down. “And I want Be’trice to come. Be’trice can always find things.”
“Beatrice cannot go,” said his grandmother, who didn’t much like the way Keith hovered near Beatrice, nor the look in his eyes. “Beatrice is tired.”
“I want Be’trice!” Dorman set up his everyday howl, which started the dogs barking outside. His guardian angel attempted to soothe him, but he would have none of her; he only howled the louder, and kicked.
“There, there, honey, I’ll go. Where’s your hat?”
“Beatrice, you had better stay in the house; you have done quite enough for one day.” The tone of the mother suggested things.
“It is imperative,” said Beatrice, “for the peace and the well-being of this household, that Dorman find his penny without delay.” When Beatrice adopted that lofty tone her mother was in the habit of saying nothing—and biding her time. Beatrice was so apt, if mere loftiness did not carry the day, to go a step further and flatly refuse to obey. Mrs. Lansell preferred to yield, rather than be openly defied.
So the three went off to find the shiny penny—and in exactly thirty-five minutes they found it. I will not say that they could not have found it sooner, but, at any rate, they didn’t, and they reached the house about two minutes behind Dick and Sir Redmond, which did not improve Sir Redmond’s temper to speak of.
After that, Keith did not need much urging from Dick to spend the rest of the afternoon at the “Pool” ranch. When he wanted to, Keith could be very nice indeed to people; he went a long way, that afternoon, toward making a friend of Miss Hayes; but Mrs. Lansell, who was one of those women who adhere to the theory of First Impressions, in capitals, continued to regard him as an incipient outlaw, who would, in time and under favorable conditions, reveal his true character, and vindicate her keen insight into human nature. There was one thing which Mrs. Lansell never forgave Keith Cameron, and that was the ruin of her watch, which refused to run while she was in Montana.
That night, when Beatrice was just snuggling down into the delicious coolness of her pillow, she heard someone rap softly, but none the less imperatively, on her door. She opened one eye stealthily, to see her mother’s pudgy form outlined in the feeble moonlight.
“Beatrice, are you asleep?”
Beatrice did not say yes, but she let her breath out carefully in a slumbrous sigh. It certainly sounded as if she were asleep.
“Be-atrice!” The tone, though guarded, was insistent.
The head of Beatrice moved slightly, and settled back into its little nest, for all the world like a dreaming, innocent baby.
If she had not been the mother of Beatrice, Mrs. Lansell would probably have gone back to her room, and continued to bide her time; but the mother of Beatrice had learned a few things about the ways of a wilful girl. She went in, and closed the door carefully behind her. She did not wish to keep the whole house awake. Then she went straight to the bed, laid hand upon a white shoulder that gleamed in the moonlight, and gave a shake.
“Beatrice, I want you to answer me when I speak.”
“M-m—did you—m-m—speak, mama?” Beatrice opened her eyes and closed them, opened them again for a minute longer, yawned daintily, and by these signs and tokens wandered back from dreamland obediently.
Her mother sat down upon the edge of the bed, and the bed creaked. Also, Beatrice groaned inwardly; the time of reckoning was verily drawing near. She promptly closed her eyes again, and gave a sleepy sigh.
“Beatrice, did you refuse Sir Redmond again?”
“M-m—were you speaking—mama?”
Mrs. Lansell, endeavoring to keep her temper, repeated the question.
Beatrice began to feel that she was an abused girl. She lifted herself to her elbow, and thumped the pillow spitefully.
“Again? Dear me, mama! I’ve never refused him once!”
“You haven’t accepted him once, either,” her mother retorted; and Beatrice lay down again.
“I do wish, Beatrice, you would look at the matter in a sensible light I’m sure I never would ask you to marry a man you could not care for. But Sir Redmond is young, and good-looking, and has birth and breeding, and money—no one can accuse him of being a fortune-hunter, I’m sure. I was asking Richard to-day, and he says Sir Redmond holds a large interest in the Northern Pool, and other English investors pay him a salary, besides, to look after their interests. I wouldn’t be surprised if the holdings of both of you would be sufficient to control the business.”
Beatrice, not caring anything for business anyway, said nothing.
“Any one can see the man’s crazy for you. His sister says he never cared for a woman before in his life.”
“Of course,” put in Beatrice sarcastically. “His sister followed him down to South Africa, and all around, and is in a position to know.”
“Any one can see he isn’t a lady’s man.”
“No—” Beatrice smiled reminiscently; “he certainly isn’t.”
“And so he’s in deadly earnest. And I’m positive he will make you a model husband.”
“Only think of having to live, all one’s life, with a model husband!” shuddered Beatrice hypocritically.
“Be-atrice! And then, it’s something to marry a title.”
“That’s the worst of it,” remarked Beatrice.
“Any other girl in America would jump at the chance. I do believe, Beatrice, you are hanging back just to be aggravating. And there’s another thing, Beatrice. I don’t approve of the way this Keith Cameron hangs around you.”
“He doesn’t!” denied Beatrice, in an altogether different tone. “Why, mama!”
“I don’t approve of flirting, Beatrice, and you know it. The way you gadded around over the hills with him—a perfect stranger—was disgraceful; perfectly disgraceful. You don’t know any thing about the fellow, whether he’s a fit companion or not—a wild, uncouth cowboy—”
“He graduated from Yale, a year after Dick. And he was halfback, too.”
“That doesn’t signify,” said her mother, “a particle. I know Miss Hayes was dreadfully shocked to see you come riding up with him, and Sir Redmond forced to go with Richard, or ride alone.”
“Dick is good company,” said Beatrice. “And it was his own fault. I asked him to go with us, when Dick and I left the cattle, and he wouldn’t. Dick will tell you the same. And after that I did not see him until just before we—I came home, Really, mama, I can’t have a leading-string on Sir Redmond. If he refuses to come with me, I can hardly insist.”
“Well, you must have done something. You said something, or did something, to make him very angry. He has not been himself all day. What did you say?”
“Dear me, mama, I am not responsible for all Sir Redmond’s ill-humor.”
“I did not ask you that, Beatrice.”
Beatrice thumped her pillow again. “I don’t remember anything very dreadful, mama. I—I think he has