“Pearsall is Hilda’s guardian,” Marchbanks said sharply; and once again it flitted across Hilda’s mind how, years ago, he had tried to oust Uncle Hank from that place. “I’m not. But till you have his permission you can’t visit her in my house.”
“I had no intention of attempting to do so, Colonel Marchbanks,” Pearse returned steadily. “Good night, everybody.” He wheeled his pony. “Ride with me to the gate, Hilda,” and she found herself following him, the people they left at first letting them go silently and then seeming to begin to quarrel about it.
“Pearse,” she cried, bringing her horse up beside his, “what a shameful way to treat you—after—They know well enough that Maybelle and I might have been killed if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Never mind about me. I don’t care how they treat me.” He glanced carelessly back toward the group at the porch edge. “It’s you I’m thinking of.”
“Well, I care!” Hilda’s voice shook with anger. “I feel as though I never wanted to see one of them again. I’d like to go straight home, if it wasn’t for—”
“Better not do that,” said Pearse uncertainly. “Not right away, anyhow. But you and I are going to be friends, aren’t we, Hilda? Even if I have to go over to the Three Sorrows and eat humble pie.”
“Oh—would you come?” cried Hilda breathlessly.
“Of course I’ll come,” Pearse said. “But your Uncle Hank, as you call him, may treat me about as Marchbanks did just now. Had you ever thought of that?”
“He wouldn’t. And if he did—”
“Well, if he did—you’d have to choose between us—wouldn’t you, Hilda?”