Her Prairie Knight by B. M. Bower (good summer reads TXT) 📖

the day before. She undertook the impossible, and attempted to head Dorman off.

“Perhaps you'll see a whale, honey. The puppies never saw a whale, I'm sure. What do you suppose they'd think?”

“Is you going?”

“You'd have to hold them up high, you know, so they could see, and show them just where to look, and—”

“Is you going, Be'trice?”

Beatrice sent a quick, despairing glance around the table. Four pairs of eyes were fixed upon her with varying degrees of interest and anxiety. The fifth pair—Dick's—were trying to hide their unrighteous glee by glaring down at the chicken wing on his plate. Beatrice felt a strong impulse to throw something at him. She gulped and faced the inevitable. It must come some time, she thought, and it might as well be now—though it did seem a pity to spoil a good dinner for every one but Dick, who was eating his with relish.

“No, honey”—her voice was clear and had the note of finality—“I'm not going—ever.”

Sir Redmond's teeth went together with a click, and he picked up the pepper shaker mechanically and peppered his salad until it was perfectly black, and Beatrice wondered how he ever expected to eat it. Mrs. Lansell dropped her fork on the floor, and had to have a clean one brought. Miss Hayes sent a frightened glance at her brother. Dick sat and ate fried chicken.

“Why, Be'trice? I wants you to—and de puppies'll need you—and auntie, and—” Dorman gathered himself for the last, crushing argument—“and Uncle Redmon' wants you awf'lly!”

Beatrice took a sip of ice water, for she needed it.

“Why, Be'trice? Gran-mama'll let you go, guess. Can't she go, gran'mama?”

It was Mrs. Lansell's turn to test the exquisite torture of that prickly chill along the spine. Like Beatrice, she dodged.

“Little boys,” she announced weakly, “should not speak until they're spoken to.”

Dick came near strangling on a shred of chicken.

“Can't she go, gran'mama? Say, can't she? Tell Be'trice to go home wis us, gran'mama!”

“Beatrice”—Mrs. Lansell swallowed—“is not a little child any longer, Dorman. She is a woman and can do as she likes. I”—she was speaking to the whole group—“I can only advise her.”

Dorman gave a squeal of triumph. “See? You can go, Be'trice! Gran'mama says you can go. You will go, won't you, Be'trice? Say yes!”

“No!” said Beatrice, with desperate emphasis. “I won't.”

“I want—Be'trice—to go-o!” Dorman slid down upon his shoulder blades, gave a squeal which was not triumph, but temper, and kicked the table till every dish on it danced.

“Dorman sit up!” commanded his auntie. “Dorman, stop, this instant! I'm ashamed of you; where is my good little man? Redmond.”

Sir Redmond seemed glad of the chance to do something besides sit quietly in his place and look calm. He got up deliberately, and in two minutes, or less, Dorman was in the woodshed with him, making sounds that frightened his puppies dreadfully and put the coyotes to shame.

Beatrice left the table hurriedly to escape the angry eyes of her mother. The sounds in the woodshed had died to a subdued sniffling, and she retreated to the front porch, hoping to escape observation. There she nearly ran against Sir Redmond, who was staring off into the dusk to where the moon was peering redly over a black pinnacle of the Bear Paws.

She would have slipped back into the house, but he did not give her the chance. He turned and faced her steadily, as he had more than once faced the Boers, when he knew that before him was nothing but defeat.

“So you're not going to England ever?”

Pride had squeezed every shade of emotion from his voice.

“No.” Beatrice gripped her fingers together tightly.

“Are you sure you won't be sorry—afterward?”

“Yes, I'm sure.” Beatrice had never done anything she hated more.

Sir Redmond, looking into her eyes, wondered why those much-vaunted sharpshooters, the Boers, had blundered and passed him by.

“I don't suppose it matters much now—but will you tell me why? I believed you would decide differently.” He was holding his voice down to a dead level, and it was not easy.

“Because—” Beatrice faced the moon, which threw a soft glow upon her face, and into her wonderful, deep eyes a golden light. “Oh, I'm sorry, Sir Redmond! But you see, I didn't know. I—I just learned to-day what it means to—to love. I—I am going to stay here. A new company—is about to be formed, Sir Redmond. The Maltese Cross and the—Triangle Bar—are going to cast their lot together.” The golden glow deepened and darkened, and blended with the red blood which flushed cheek and brow and throat.

It took Sir Redmond a full minute to comprehend. When he did, he breathed deep, shut his lips upon words that would have frightened her, and went down the steps into the gloom.

Beatrice watched him stride away into the dusky silence, and her heart ached with sympathy for him. Then she looked beyond, to where the lights of the Cross ranch twinkled joyously, far down the coulee, and the sweet egotism of happiness enfolded her, shutting him out. After that she forgot him utterly. She looked up at the moon, sailing off to meet the stars, smiled good-fellowship and then went in to face her mother.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Her Prairie Knight, by B.M. Sinclair, AKA B. M. Bower