Her Prairie Knight [35]
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 you, and make you happy. I should not ask you to go or stay where you did not please, and I'd be good to you, Beatrice!"
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 you, and make you happy. I should not ask you to go or stay where you did not please, and I'd be good to you, Beatrice!"