“I didn’t say impossible.”
“Well, never mind what you said; we have settled the matter and I will give you a parting word. I will stand by you if you need me, and if you will stop pretending that you are in love with me. As I think of it, I suppose I should be feeling quite aggrieved that I am only second best and that you offered me less than half a heart. Still, as I did not take it, we are quits and we can still be the good friends we have always been.” She held out her hand and Blythe clasped it warmly.
“You are even finer than I thought you were, Alison,” he declared. “It will be a lucky man who wins you, and as for me I am your friend for life.”
“I may need your friendship when you are judge,” laughed Alison, rising. “We must be going, for it is growing late. Come over just as usual, Blythe, and we will talk over this difficult question whenever you are put to it to restrain your emotions, and until you set your affections upon some other girl. I will not vouch for your constancy.” And with a laugh she preceded him to the house.
CHAPTER XV
SIR KNIGHT
AMONG the few books which the Ross family had brought from their Kentucky home were two or three which Alison read and re-read whenever she was kept indoors by a norther or by any slight illness. Her favorite of these was Spenser’s “Faerie Queen.” This appealed to her by its quaintness of language no less than by its recitals of the adventures of knights and ladies, for while Alison possessed much practical good sense she was an imaginative girl and indulged in day-dreams of such a romantic character as few guessed who saw her roping in an obstreperous calf, or beheld her, paddle in hand, absorbed in working a lump of butter. Her romances, save the one in which Blythe figured, had been of such a nature as to win nothing but her contempt, for it was not to be supposed that either she or Christine would be unsought in a country where men were greatly in the majority. But Alison flouted all her lovers, made fun of them to her girl friends and seemed utterly devoid of sentiment, so her sister told her, for even she did not know of Alison’s air-castles. These day-dreams concerned a dashing young knight who for her sake would undertake some arduous quest and, wearing her colors, would go through weary adventures returning at last to claim her hand. She knew all this was rather foolish, but novels were few and romance she must have.
She was amusing herself one day with thoughts of her imaginary knight as she was riding home from a visit to Louisa. The summer had come and gone, bringing no great change. In spite of continued hope nothing more definite had been learned of Steve. Pike Smith had disappeared utterly, and there was no hope of ever seeing Hero again. Christine had refused more than one bluff suitor and into her brown eyes was creeping the patient look of one ever seeking, ever hoping against repeated disappointment. The friendship between John and Laura remained upon a comfortable basis, but it was believed by every one concerned that they would one day marry.
“A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine,” repeated Alison to herself as she rode along. “That could not have been my knight, for it was the Knight of the Red Cross. I don’t quite like that name, neither do I like Sir Scudamour. I think I like Sir Guyon or Sir Artegall the best. No, Steve would have to be Sir Guyon, because he lost his steed, that was stolen by Braggadochio; Pike Smith is more like the Blatant Beast, however. I think I am the Lady Florimell. My knight shall be Sir Artegall because of that magic sword Chrysaor. Well, here I am riding through the forest. Suppose I should meet the Blatant Beast or the Giant with the Flaming Eyes; I would call for help and my own true knight, Sir Artegall, would come pricking along ‘ycladde in mighty armes and silver shielde.’ I, on my snow-white palfrey would seem to him a vision of angelic loveliness. They always have flowing locks bound by a fillet of blue. Wait a minute, Chico.” She unfastened her fair hair and let it fall over her shoulders, binding it back with a blue ribbon from her neck. “My wanton palfrey should be overspread with ‘tinsell trappings,’ but we shall have to imagine those, Chico. On, on, my gentle steed, I fear the Blatant Beast. What, do my eyes deceive me, or is it a noble knight I see pricking this way?”
She suddenly checked Chico in his progress, for there was, indeed, some one riding towards her, a man in the dress of a Texan Ranger, buckskins, hunting shirt and broad-brimmed sombrero. Alison felt not a sign of fear, but drew Chico to the side of the road and waited the approach of the man. As he drew near she gave a glad little laugh. “It’s Neal, Neal, Chico,” she whispered; “now we will have some fun,” and raising her voice she shrilled out: “Help, help, Sir Knight. I am pursued by the Blatant Beast.”
Neal, for he it was, put spurs to his horse and galloped rapidly towards her. “Alison, Alison,” he cried, as he came up, “what is the matter? What is wrong?”