Her Prairie Knight by B. M. Bower (short novels to read .TXT) 📕

Beatrice felt distinctly out of sorts the next day, and chose an hour for her ride when she felt reasonably secure from unwelcome company. But when she went out into the sunshine there was Sir Redmond waiting with Rex and his big gray. Beatrice was not exactly elated at the sight, but she saw nothing to do but smile and make the best of it. She wanted to be alone, so that she could dream along through the hills she had learned to love, and think out some things which troubled her, and decide just how she had best go about winning Rex for herself; it had become quite necessary to her peace of mind that she should teach Dick and Keith Cameron a much-needed lesson.

“It has been so long since we rode together,” he apologized. “I hope you don't mind my coming along.”

“Oh, no! Why should I mind?” Beatrice smiled upon him in friendly fashion. She liked Sir Redmond very much—only she hoped he was not going to make love. Somehow, she did not feel in the mood for love-making just then.

“I don't know why, I'm sure. But you seem rather fond of riding about 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