BURT'S RESOLVE
For the first two or three miles Burt rode as if he were trying to leave
care behind him, scarcely heeding what direction he took. When at last he
reined his reeking horse he found himself near the entrance of the lane
over which willows met in a Gothic arch. He yielded to the impulse to visit
the spot which had seen the beginning of so fateful an acquaintance, and
had not gone far when a turn in the road revealed a group whose presence
almost made his heart stand still for a moment. Miss Hargrove had stopped
her horse on the very spot where he had aided her in her awkward
predicament. Her back was toward him, and her great dog was at her side,
looking up into her face, as if in mute sympathy with his fair mistress.
Hope sprang up in Burt's heart. She could not be there with bowed head if
she despised him. Her presence seemed in harmony with that glance by
which, when weak and unnerved after escaping from deadly peril, she had
revealed possibly more than gratitude to the one who had rescued her. His
love rose like an irresistible tide, and he resolved that before he left
his home Amy and Miss Hargrove should know the whole truth, whatever
might be the result. Meanwhile he was rapidly approaching the young girl,
and the dog's short bark of recognition was her first intimation of
Hurt's presence. Her impulse was to fly, but in a second she saw the
absurdity of this course, and yet she was greatly embarrassed, and would
rather have been discovered by him at almost any other point of the
globe. She was going to the city on the morrow, and as she had drawn rein
on this spot and realized the bitterness of her disappointment, tears
would come. She wiped them hastily away, but dreaded lest their traces
should be seen.
Turning her horse, she met Burt with a smile that her moist eyes belied,
and said: "I'm glad you do not find me in such an awkward plight as when
we first met here. I've been giving my horse a rest. Do you not want a
gallop?" and away like the wind she started homeward.
Burt easily kept at her side, but conversation was impossible. At last he
said: "My horse is very tired, Miss Hargrove. At this pace you will soon
be home, and I shall feel that you are seeking to escape from me. Have I
fallen so very low in your estimation?"
"Why," she exclaimed, in well-feigned surprise, as she checked her horse,
"what have you done that you should fall in my estimation?"
"I shall tell you before very long," he said, with an expression that
seemed almost tragic.
"Mr. Clifford, you surprise me. Your horse is all of a foam too. Surely
this brief gallop cannot have so tried your superb beast. What has
happened? Amy is not ill, or any one?"
"Oh, no," he replied, with a grim laugh. "Everyone is well and
complacent. I had been riding rapidly before I met you. My horse has been
idle for some days, and I had to run the spirit out of him. Amy wishes to
have a chestnutting party to-morrow. Won't you join us?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Clifford, but I return to the city tomorrow afternoon,
and was coming over in the morning to say good-by to Amy and your father
and mother."
"I am very sorry too," he said, in tones that gave emphasis to his words.
She turned upon him a swift, questioning glance, but her eyes instantly
fell before his intense gaze.
"Oh, well," she said, lightly, "we've had a very pleasant summer, and all
things must come to an end, you know." Then she went on speaking, in a
matter-of-fact way, of the need of looking after Fred, who was alone in
town, and of getting the city house in order, and of her plans for the
winter, adding: "As there is a great deal of fruit on the place, papa
does not feel that he can leave just yet. You know he goes back and forth
often, and so his business does not suffer. But I can just as well go
down now, and nearly all my friends have returned to town."
"All your friends, Miss Hargrove?"
"Amy has promised to visit me soon," she said, hastily.
"It would seem that I am not down on your list of friends," he began,
gloomily.
"Why, Mr. Clifford, I'm sure papa and I would be glad to have you call
whenever you are in town."
"I fear I shall have to disappoint Mr. Hargrove," he said, a little
satirically. "I'm going West the last of this month, and may be absent
much of the winter. I expect to look about in that section for some
opening in business."
"Indeed," she replied, in tones which were meant to convey but little
interest, yet which had a slight tremor in spite of her efforts. "It will
be a very great change for you."
"Perhaps you think that constitutes its chief charm."
"Mr. Clifford," she said, "what chance have I had to think about it at
all? You have never mentioned the matter." (Amy had, however, and
Gertrude had not only thought about it, but dreamed of it, as if she had
been informed that on a certain date the world would end.) "Is it not a
rather sudden plan?" she asked, a little hesitatingly.
"Yes, it is. My father has a large tract of land in the West, and it's
time it was looked after. Isn't it natural that I should think of doing
something in life? I fear there is an impression in your mind that I
entertain few thoughts beyond having a good time."
"To have a good time in life," she said, smiling at him, "is a very
serious matter, worthy of any one's attention. It would seem that few
accomplish it."
"And I greatly fear that I shall share in the ill-success of the
majority."
"You are much mistaken. A man has no end of resources. You will soon be
enjoying the excitement of travel and enterprise in the West."
"And you the excitement of society and conquest in the city. Conquests,
however, must be almost wearisome to you, Miss Hargrove, you make them so
easily."
"You overrate my power. I certainly should soon weary of conquests were I
making them. Women are different from men in this respect. Where in
history do we read of a man who was satiated with conquest? Well, here we
are at home. Won't you come in? Papa will be glad to see you."
"Are you going to the city to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"May I call on you this evening?"
"Certainly. Bring Amy with you, won't you?"
"Will you forgive me if I come alone?"
"I'll try to. I suppose Amy will be tired from nutting."
He did not reply, but lifted his hat gravely, mounted his horse, and
galloped away as if he were an aid bearing a message that might avert a
battle.
Miss Hargrove hastened to her room, and took off her hat with trembling
hands. Burt's pale, resolute face told her that the crisis in her life
had come. And yet she did not fully understand him. If he meant to speak,
why had he not done so? why had he not asked permission to consult her
father?
Mr. Hargrove, from his library window, saw Burt's formal parting, and
concluded that his fears or hopes--he scarcely knew which were uppermost,
so deep was his love for his daughter, and so painful would it be to see
her unhappy--were not to be fulfilled. By a great effort Gertrude
appeared not very _distraite_ at dinner, nor did she mention Burt,
except in a casual manner, in reply to a question from her mother, but
her father thought he detected a strong and suppressed excitement.
She excused herself early from the table, and said she must finish
packing for her departure.