“Something has happened, sweetheart. You must tell me what it is.”
She sighed, and, trembling a little, clung more tightly to my arm when, after tethering the horse, we walked slowly side by side through the shadow of the great fir branches.
“I was longing for you so,” she said. “As you say, something has happened, and there is no one to whom I can tell my troubles. What I feared has happened, for this morning Geoffrey Ormond asked me to marry him.”
“Confusion to him!” I broke out, driving one heel deep into the fir needles; and when Grace checked me, laying both hands on her shoulders, I held her fast as I asked, “And what did you say?”
She smiled faintly as she answered, “This is not the age of savagery, Ralph; your fingers are bruising me. What answer could I give him after my promise to you? I said, ‘No.’”
“Then the folly is done with, and there will be an end to his presumption,” I answered hotly. But Grace sighed again as she said:
“No, this is not the ending. You are fierce and stubborn and headstrong—and I like to have you so; Geoffrey is cool and quiet and slow, and, I must say it, a chivalrous gentleman. I could not tell him all; but he took my answer gracefully, saying he would respect it in the meantime, but would never give up hope. Ralph, I almost wonder whether you would have acted as becomingly.”
Perhaps it was said to gain time; and, if so, I took the bait and answered with bitterness: 223
“He has been trained and polished and accustomed to the smooth side of life. Is it strange that he has learned a little courtesy? Again I say, confound him! I am of the people, stained with the soil, and roughened by a laborer’s toil; but, Grace, you know I would gladly give my life to serve you.”
“You are as God and your work have made you,” was the quiet answer; and, drawing closer to me, she added, “And I would not have you otherwise. Don’t lapse into heroics, Ralph. What you did that day in the cañon will speak better than words for you. Instead you must listen while I tell you the whole story. As it was with you and your cousin, Geoffrey and I—we are distantly related too—were always good friends. He was older, and, as you say, polished, and in many ways I looked up to him, while my father was trustee for him under a will, and when he joined the army my father continued, I understand, to manage his property. Still—and I know now that I must have been blind—I never looked upon Geoffrey as—as a possible husband until twelve months ago. Since then my eyes have been opened, and I understand many things—most of all that my father wished it, for he has told me so, and that Geoffrey is heavily interested financially in his ventures. I know that he has sunk large sums of money in the mine, and they have found no ore, while I heard a chance whisper of a mortgage on Carrington. Yet Geoffrey has never even hinted to me that he was more than a small shareholder. My father has grown aged and worn lately, though only those who know him well could tell he was carrying a heavy load of anxiety. He has always been kind to me, and it hurt, horribly, to refuse to meet his wishes when he almost pleaded with me.”