“But, Mr. Pearsall, the child isn’t ‘out’ yet.”
“No,” agreed Hank seriously, “but she’s a-goin’ out to-morrow, when Marchbanks comes through for her.”
“You don’t understand me,” Miss Val said. “You don’t get my meaning. At home, in New York, we used that expression—” She broke off, drew her brows a little, and the bright black eyes behind the glasses studied the ranch boss a moment before she went on: “Hilda’s a schoolgirl—she goes to Mr. Marchbanks’ as a schoolgirl. She’s not out in society. Naturally, she won’t be thinking of any of those matters you mention. I certainly shouldn’t bring them up in talking to her—it might put foolish ideas into her head.”
“You won’t take it on you to speak to her?” Hank asked.
“Certainly not. Those people—the Marchbankses—have a daughter near Hilda’s age. Of course, Maybelle Marchbanks isn’t out yet, either. I remember the child when she was here, visiting the Capadine ranch. Mrs. Marchbanks can be trusted, I am sure, with the management of the social affairs of two school-girls. Why, Mr. Pearsall, in New York we shouldn’t be thinking, much less speaking, of such things in connection with Hilda for—for some time yet. It is the custom there, you know, to introduce a girl to society—when she is through with her schooling, and has had, perhaps, some travel abroad—at a ball or other large affair. They tell me that now a luncheon or a tea is more usual. I haven’t begun to trouble my head yet about which would be nicest for Hilda—when the time comes. But I’ll attend to all that. I’ll attend to it, Mr. Pearsall. Don’t give it another thought.”
Hank backed away, nodding. When Miss Val began talking New York— Well, he could hear her words; but, as for getting any sense out of them—
“I’ve got to do it myself,” he reflected, with some misgiving. “Lord, send me the right words.”
He was fumbling after those right words on the evening of that day, as he sat beside Hilda in the afterglow on the side door-stone—the spot where he and she had lingered so often to exchange deep confidences. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was like a young bird with trembling wings lifted for flight. Yet there was pathos in her face too. And to that he had not the clew of Pearse Masters’ letter in her pocket.
“Pettie,” he began, looking out over the plain to where the planet of love hung luminous in the sky, “I spoke to your aunt about saying some little things to you that ought to come to a girl easier from her women-folks than from any one else; and—she said best not to put it into your head. Now, honey-girl, I know that if your own folks don’t do it, there’ll be them that will—and anybody that does, will be the wrong person.”
There was a startled silence between them. Hilda turned eyes that were a bit frightened to his grave face. She had understood at once what it was of which he wished to speak.