I lifted Grace from the pony’s back, led her toward the house, and saw the old man fold his arms about her. Then I heard her happy cry, and while for a time they forgot all about me, I stood holding the pony’s rein and thinking. My first impulse was to go forward and claim her before them, but that was too much like taking advantage of her father’s relief. Also, I felt that some things are sacred, and the presence of any stranger would be an intrusion then, while it seemed hardly fitting to forthwith demand such a reward for what any other should doubtless have done gladly. So, trusting that Grace would understand, I turned away, determined to call on the Colonel the next morning, and, though I am not sure that the result would otherwise have been different, I afterward regretted it. Now I know that any excess of delicacy or consideration for others which may cause unnecessary sorrow to those nearest us is only folly.
No one called me back, or apparently noticed me, and though with much difficulty I reached the ranch, and was hospitably entertained there, I never closed my eyes all night. I returned to the Colonel’s dwelling as early as possible the next morning, and was at once received by him. The events of the preceding day had left their impression even on him, and for once his eyes were kindly, while it was with perceptible emotion he grasped my hand.
“I am indebted to you for life, and you acted with discernment as well as gallantry,” he said. “You have an old man’s fervent thanks, and if he can ever repay such a service you may rely on his gratitude.”
I do not know why, for they were evidently sincere enough, but the words struck me unpleasantly. They seemed to emphasize the difference between us, and there was only one favor I would ever ask of him.
“You can return it now with the greatest honor it is 191 in your power to grant any living man,” I answered bluntly. “I ask the promise of Miss Carrington’s hand.”
I feel sure now that there was pity in his eyes for a moment, though I scarcely noticed it then, and he answered gravely:
“I am sorry. You have asked the one thing impossible. When Miss Carrington marries it will be in accordance with my wishes and an arrangement made with a dead kinsman long ago.”
I think he would have continued, but that I broke in: “But I love her, and she trusts me. Ever since I came to this country I have been fighting my way upward with this one object in view. We are both young, sir, and I shall not always be poor—” but here he stopped me with a gesture, repeating dryly, “I am sorry for you.”
He paced the long room twice before he again turned toward me, saying with a tone of authority, “Sit down there. I am not in the habit of explaining my motives, but I will make an exception now. My daughter has been brought up luxuriously, as far as circumstances permitted, and in her case they permitted it in a measure even on the prairie—I arranged it so. She has scarcely had a wish I could not gratify, and at Carrington Manor her word was law. I need hardly say she ordered wisely.”
I bent my head in token of comprehension and agreement as the speaker paused, and then, with a different and incisive inflection, he continued: