Her Prairie Knight, B. M. Bower [heaven official's blessing novel english .txt] 📗

“He doesn't seem a bad sort, sis, and the title will be nice to have in the family, if one cares for such things. Mother does. She was disappointed, I take it, that Wiltmar was a younger son.”

“Yes, she was. She used to think that Sir Redmond might get killed down there fighting the Boers, and then Wiltmar would be next in line. But he didn't, and it was Wiltmar who went first. And now oh, it's humiliating, Dick! To be thrown at a man's head—” Tears were not far from her voice just then.

“I can see she wants you to nab the title. Well, sis, if you don't care for the man—”

“I never said I didn't care for him. But I just can't treat him decently, with mama dinning that title in my ears day and night. I wish there wasn't any title. Oh, it's abominable! Things have come to that point where an American girl with money is not supposed to care for an Englishman, no matter how nice he may be, if he has a title, or the prospect of one. Every one laughs and thinks it's the title she wants; they'd think it of me, and they'd say it. They would say Beatrice Lansell took her half-million and bought her a lord. And, after a while, perhaps Sir Redmond himself would half-believe it—and I couldn't bear that! And so I am—unbearably flippant and—I should think he'd hate me!”

“So you reversed the natural order of things, and refused him on account of the title?” Dick grinned surreptitiously.

“No, I didn't—not quite. I'm afraid he's dreadfully angry with me, though. I do wish he wasn't such a dear.”

“You're the same old Trix. You've got to be held back from the trail you're supposed to take, or you won't travel it; you'll bolt the other way. If everybody got together and fought the notion, you would probably elope with milord inside a week. Mother means well, but she isn't on to her job a little bit. She ought to turn up her nose at the title.”

“No fear of that! I've had it before my eyes till I hate the very thought of it. I—I wish I could hate him.” Beatrice sighed deeply, and gave her hand to Dorman, who scurried up to her.

“I'll have the horses saddled right away,” said Dick, and left them.

“Where you going, Be'trice? You going to ride a horse? I want to, awf'lly.”

“I'm afraid you can't, honey; it's too far.” Beatrice pushed a yellow curl away from his eyes with tender, womanly solicitude.

“Auntie won't care, 'cause I'm a bother. Auntie says she's goin' to send for Parks. I don't want Parks; 'sides, Parks is sick. I want a pony, and some ledder towsers wis fringes down 'em, and I want some little wheels on my feet. Mr. Cam'ron says I do need some little wheels, Be'trice.”

“Did he, honey?”

“Yes, he did. I like Mr. Cam'ron, Be'trice; he let me ride his big, high pony. He's a berry good pony. He shaked hands wis me, Be'trice—he truly did.”

“Did he, hon?” Beatrice, I am sorry to say, was not listening. She was wondering if Sir Redmond was really angry with her—too angry, for instance, to go over where the cattle were. He really ought to go, for he had come West in the interest of the Eastern stockholders in the Northern Pool, to investigate the actual details of the work. He surely would not miss this opportunity, Beatrice thought. And she hoped he was not angry.

“Yes, he truly did. Mr. Cam'ron interduced us, Be'trice. He said, 'Redcloud, dis is Master Dorman Hayes. Shake hands wis my frien' Dorman.' And he put up his front hand, Be'trice, and nod his head, and I shaked his hand. I dess love that big, high pony, Be'trice. Can I buy him, Be'trice?”

“Maybe, kiddie.”

“Can I buy him wis my six shiny pennies, Be'trice?”

“Maybe.”

“Mr. Cam'ron lives right over that hill, Be'trice. He told me.”

“Did he, hon?”

“Yes, he did. He 'vited me over, Be'trice. He's my friend, and I've got to buy my big, high pony. I'll let you shake hands wis him, Be'trice. I'll interduce him to you. And I'll let you ride on his back, Be'trice. Do you want to ride on his back?”

“Yes, honey.”

Before Beatrice had time to commit herself they reached the house, and she let go Dorman's hand and hurried away to get into her riding-habit.

Dorman straightway went to find his six precious, shiny pennies, which Beatrice had painstakingly scoured with silver polish one day to please the little tyrant, and which increased their value many times—so many times, in fact, that he hid them every night in fear of burglars. Since he concealed them each time in a different place, he was obliged to ransack his auntie's room every morning, to the great disturbance of Martha, the maid, who was an order-loving person.

Martha appeared just when he had triumphantly pounced upon his treasure rolled up in the strings of his aunt's chiffon opera-bonnet.

“Mercy upon us, Master Dorman! Whatever have you been doing?”

“I want my shiny pennies,” said the young gentleman, composedly unwinding the roll, “to buy my big, high pony.”

“Naughty, naughty boy, to muss my lady's fine bonnet like that! Look at things scattered over the floor, and my lady's fine handkerchiefs and gloves—” Martha stopped and meditated whether she might dare to shake him.

Dorman was laboriously counting his wealth, with much wrinkling of stubby nose and lifting of eyebrows. Having satisfied himself that they were really all there, he deigned to look around, with a fine masculine disdain of woman's finery.

“Oh, dose old things!” he sniffed. “I always fordet where I put my shiny pennies. Robbers might find them if I put them easy places. I'm going to buy my big, high pony, and you can't shake his hand a bit, Martha.”

“Well, I'm sure I don't want to!” Martha snapped back at him, and went down on all fours to gather up the things he had thrown down. “Whatever Parks was thinking of, to go and get fever, when she was the only one that could manage you, I don't know! And me picking up after you till I'm fair sick!”

“I'm glad you is sick,” he retorted unfeelingly, and backed to the door. “I hopes you get sicker so your stummit makes you hurt. You can't ride on my big, high pony.”

“Get along with you and your high pony!” cried the exasperated Martha, threatening with a hairbrush. Dorman, his six shiny pennies held fast in his damp little fist, fled down the stairs and out into the sunlight.

Dick and Beatrice were just ready to ride away from the porch. “I want to go wis you, Uncle Dick.” Dorman had followed the lead of Beatrice, his divinity; he refused to say Richard, though