You had some fur--brown fur--snuggled under your chin,
and the pink of your cheeks, and your dear, brown eyes shining and
smiling above--Good God! I've always loved you! From the beginning of
the world, I think! I'd be good to you, Beatrice, and I believe I could
make you happy--if you give me the chance."
Something in Beatrice's throat ached cruelly. It was the truth, and she
knew it. He did love her, and the love of a brave man is not a thing to
be thrust lightly aside. But it demanded such a lot in return! More,
perhaps, than she could give. A love like that--a love that gives
everything--demands everything in return. Anything less insults it.
She stole a glance at him. Sir Redmond was looking straight before him,
with the fixed gaze that sees nothing. There was the white line around
his mouth which Beatrice had seen once before. Again that griping ache
was in her throat, till she could have cried out with the pain of it.
She wanted to speak, to say something--anything--which would drive that
look from his face.
While her mind groped among the jumble of words that danced upon her
tongue, and that seemed, all of them, so pitifully weak and inadequate,
she heard the galloping hoofs of a horse pounding close behind. A
choking cloud of dust swept down upon them, and Keith, riding in the
midst, reined out to pass.
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