“Patsy, that is downright savagery,” I warmly accused. “Come, be your old self. We used to be mighty good friends three years ago. Be honest with me. Didn’t you like me back in Williamsburg?”
The pink of her cheeks deepened, but she quietly countered:
“Why, Basdel, I like you now. If I didn’t I never would bother to speak plainly to you.”
Three years’ picture-painting was turning out to be dream-stuff. I tried to tell myself I was foolish to love one so much like Ericus Dale; but the lure was there and I could no more resist it than a bear can keep away from a honey-tree.
She had shown herself to be contemptuous in reviewing the little I had done. She was blind to the glory of to-morrow and more than filled with absurd crotchets, and yet there was but one woman in America who could make my heart run away from control. If it couldn’t be Patsy Dale it could be no one.
“Back in Williamsburg, before I made such a mess of my affairs, you knew I loved you.”
“We were children—almost.”
“But I’ve felt the same about you these three years. I’ve looked ahead to seeing you. I’ve—well, Patsy, you can guess how I feel. Do I carry any hope with me when I go back to the forest?”
The color faded from her face and her eyes were almost wistful as she met my gaze unflinchingly, and gently asked:
“Basdel, is it fair for a man going back to the forest to carry hope with him? The man goes once and is gone three years. What if he goes a second time and is gone another three years? And then what if he comes back, rifle in hand, and that’s all? What has he to offer her? A home in the wilderness? But what if she has always lived in town and isn’t used to that sort of life?”