Her Prairie Knight, Lonesome Land & The Uphill Climb: Complete Western Trilogy. B. M. Bower
these hills by yourself. One should never ask why women do things, I fancy. It seems always to invite disaster.”
“Does it?” Beatrice was not half-listening. They were passing, just then, the suburbs of a “dog town,” and she was never tired of watching the prairie-dogs stand upon their burrows, chip-chip defiance until fear overtook their impertinence, and then dive headlong deep into the earth. “I do think a prairie-dog is the most impudent creature alive and the most shrewish. I never pass but I am scolded by these little scoundrels till my ears burn. What do you think they say?”
“They’re probably inviting you to stop with them and be their queen, and are scolding because your heart is hard and you only laugh and ride on.”
“Queen of a prairie-dog town! Dear me! Why this plaintive mood?”
“Am I plaintive? I do not mean to be, I’m sure.”
“You don’t appear exactly hilarious,” she told him. “I can’t see what is getting the matter with us all. Mama and your sister are poor company, even for each other, and Dick is like a bear. One can’t get a civil word out of him. I’m not exactly amiable, myself, either; but I relied upon you to keep the mental temperature up to normal, Sir Redmond.”
“Perhaps it’s a good thing we shall not stop here much longer. I must confess I don’t fancy the country—and Mary is downright homesick. She wants to get back to her parish affairs; she’s afraid some rheumatic old woman needs coddling with jelly and wine, and that sort of thing. I’ve promised to hurry through the business here, and take her home. But I mean to see that Pine Ridge fence in place before I go; or, at least, see it well under way.”
“I’m sure Dick will attend to it properly,” Beatrice remarked, with pink cheeks. If she remembered what she had threatened to tell Sir Redmond, she certainly could not have asked for a better opportunity. She was reminding herself at that moment that she always detested a tale bearer.
“Your brother Dick is a fine fellow, and I have every confidence in him; but you must see yourself that he is swayed, more or less, by his friendship for—his neighbors. It is only a kindness to take the responsibility off his shoulders till the thing is done. I’m sure he will feel better to have it so.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “I think you’re right. Dick always was very soft-hearted, and, right or wrong, he clings to his friends.” Then, rather hastily, as though anxious to change the trend of the conversation: “Of course, your sister will insist on keeping Dorman with her. I shall miss that little scamp dreadfully, I’m afraid.” The next minute she saw that she had only opened a subject she dreaded even more.
“It is something to know that there is even one of us that you will miss,” Sir Redmond observed. Something in his tone hurt.
“I shall miss you all,” she said hastily. “It has been a delightful summer.”
“I wish I might know just what element made it delightful. I wish—”
“I scarcely think it has been any particular element,” she broke in, trying desperately to stave off what she felt in his tone. “I love the wild, where I can ride, and ride, and never meet a human being—where I can dream and dally and feast my eyes on a landscape man has not touched. I have lived most of my life in New York, and I love nature so well that I’m inclined to be jealous of her. I want her left free to work out all her whims in her own way. She has a keen sense of humor, I think. The way she modeled some of these hills proves that she loves her little jokes. I have seen where she cut deep, fearsome gashes, with sides precipitous, as though she had some priceless treasure hidden away in the deep, where man cannot despoil it. And if you plot and plan, and try very hard, you may reach the bottom at last and find the treasure—nothing. Or, perhaps, a tiny little stream, as jealously guarded as though each drop were priceless.”
Sir Richmond rode for a few minutes in silence. When he spoke, it was abruptly.
“And is that all? Is there nothing to this delightful summer, after all, but your hills?”
“Oh, of course, I—it has all been delightful. I shall hate to go back home, I think.” Beatrice was a bit startled to find just how much she would hate to go back and wrap herself once more in the conventions of society life. For the first time since she could remember, she wanted her world to stand still.
Sir Redmond went doggedly to the point he had in mind and heart.
“I hoped, Beatrice, you would count me, too. I’ve tried to be patient. You know, don’t you, that I love you?”
“You’ve certainly told me often enough,” she retorted, in a miserable attempt at her old manner.
“And you’ve put me off, and laughed at me, and did everything under heaven but answer me fairly. And I’ve acted the fool, no doubt. I know it. I’ve no courage before a woman. A curl of your lip, and I was ready to cut and run. But I can’t go on this way forever—I’ve got to know. I wish I could talk as easy as I can fight; I’d have settled the thing long ago. Where other men can plead their cause, I can say just the one thing—I love you, Beatrice. When I saw you first, in the carriage I loved you then. You had some fur—brown fur—snuggled under your chin, and the pink of your cheeks, and your dear, brown eyes shining and smiling above—Good God! I’ve always loved you! From the beginning of the world, I think! I’d be good to you, Beatrice, and I believe I could make you happy—if you give me the chance.”
Something in Beatrice’s throat ached cruelly. It was the truth, and she knew it. He did love her, and the love of a brave man is not a thing to be thrust lightly aside. But it demanded such a lot in return! More, perhaps, than she could give. A love like that—a love that gives everything—demands everything in return. Anything less insults it.
She stole a glance at him. Sir Redmond was looking straight before him, with the fixed gaze that sees nothing. There was the white line around his mouth which Beatrice had seen once before. Again that griping ache was in her throat, till she could have cried out with the pain of it. She wanted to speak, to say something—anything—which would drive that look from his face.
While her mind groped among the jumble of words that danced upon her tongue, and that seemed, all of them, so pitifully weak and inadequate, she heard the galloping hoofs of a horse pounding close behind. A choking cloud of dust swept down upon them, and Keith, riding in the midst, reined out to pass. He lifted his hat. His eyes challenged Beatrice, swept coldly the face of her companion, and turned again to the trail. He swung his heels backward, and Redcloud broke again into the tireless lope that carried him far ahead, until there was only a brown dot speeding over the prairie.
Sir Redmond waited until Keith was far beyond hearing, then he filled his lungs deeply and looked at Beatrice. “Don’t you feel you could trust me—and love me a little?”
Beatrice was deadly afraid she was going to cry, and she hated weeping women above all things. “A little wouldn’t do,” she said, with what firmness she could muster. “I should want to love you as much—quite as much as you deserve, Sir Redmond, or not at all. I’m afraid I can’t. I wish I could, though. I—I think I should like to love you; but perhaps I haven’t much heart. I like you very much—better than I ever liked any one before; but oh, I wish you wouldn’t insist on an answer! I don’t know, myself, how I feel. I wish you had not asked me—yet. I tried not to let you.”
“A man can keep his heart still for a certain time, Beatrice, but not for always. Some time he will say what his heart commands, if the chance is given him; the woman can’t hold him back. I did wait and wait, because I thought you weren’t ready for me to speak. And—you don’t care for anybody else?”
“Of course I don’t. But I hate to give up my freedom to any one, Sir Redmond. I want to be free—free as the wind that blows here always, and changes and changes, and blows from any point that suits its whim, without being bound to any rule.”
“Do you think I’m an ogre, that will lock you in a dungeon, Beatrice? Can’t you see that I am not threatening your freedom? I only want the right to love