Books: Nature\'s Serial Story

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The best hope of Burt had been that he had checkmated the girls in their
disposition to make jesting comparisons, He would retire with so much
nonchalance as to leave nothing to be said. They would find complete
inaction and silence hard to combat. But the more he thought of it the
less it seemed like an honorable retreat. He had openly wooed one girl,
he had since lost his heart to another, and she had given him a glimpse
of strong regard, if not more. His thoughts were busy with her every word
and glance. How much had his tones and eyes revealed to her? Might she
not think him a heartless flirt if he continued to avoid her and went
away without a word? Would it not be better to be laughed at as one who
did not know his own mind than be despised for deliberate trifling? Amy
had asked him to go and spend an evening with her friend, and he had
pleaded weariness as an excuse. Her incredulous look and rather cool
manner since had not been reassuring. She had that very morning broached
the subject of a chestnutting party for the following day, and he had
promptly said that he was going to the city to make inquiries about
routes to the West.

"Why, Burt, you can put off your trip to town for a day," said his
mother. "If you are to leave us so soon you should make the most of the
days that are left."

"That is just what he is doing," Amy remarked, satirically. "He has
become absorbed in large business considerations. Those of us who have
not such resources are of no consequence."

The old people and Leonard believed that Amy was not pleased with the
idea of Burt's going away, but they felt that she was a little
unreasonable, since the young fellow was rather to be commended for
wishing to take life more seriously. But her words rankled in Burt's
mind. He felt that she understood him better than the others, and that he
was not winning respect from her. In the afternoon he saw her, with Alf
and Johnnie, starting for the chestnut-trees, and although she passed not
far away she gave him only a slight greeting, and did not stop for a
little merry banter, as usual. The young fellow was becoming very
unhappy, and he felt that his position was growing intolerable. That Amy
should be cold toward him, or, indeed, toward any one, was an unheard-of
thing, and he knew that she must feel that there was good reason for her
manner. "And is there not?" he asked himself, bitterly. "What are she and
Miss Hargrove thinking about me?"

The more he thought upon the past the more awkward and serious appeared
his dilemma, and his long Western journey, which at first he had welcomed
as promising a diversion of excitement and change, now began to appear
like exile. He dreaded to think of the memories he must take with him;
still more he deprecated the thoughts he would leave behind him. His
plight made him so desperate that he suddenly left the orchard where he
was gathering apples, went to the house, put on his riding-suit, and in a
few moments was galloping furiously away on his black horse. With a
renewal of hope Webb watched his proceedings, and with many surmises,
Amy, from a distant hillside, saw him passing at a break-neck pace.

CHAPTER LIII

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.

CHAPTER LIV

A GENTLE EXORCIST

Burt's black horse was again white before he approached his home. In the
distance he saw Amy returning, the children running on before, Alf
whooping like a small Indian to some playmate who was answering further
away. The gorgeous sunset lighted up the still more brilliant foliage,
and made the scene a fairyland. But Burt had then no more eye for nature
than a man would have who had staked his all on the next throw of the
dice. Amy was alone, and now was his chance to intercept her before she
reached the house. Imagine her surprise as she saw him make his horse
leap the intervening fences, and come galloping toward her.

"Burt," she cried, as he, in a moment or two, reined up near her, "you
will break your neck!"

"It wouldn't matter much," he said, grimly. "I fear a worse fate than
that."

"What do you mean?" she asked, in alarm. "What has happened?"

He threw the bridle over a stake in the fence, and the horse was glad to
rest, with drooping head. Then he came and stood beside her, his face
flushed, and his mouth twitching with excitement and strong feeling. For
a moment he could not speak.

"Burt," she said, "what is the matter? What do you fear?"

"I fear your scorn, Amy," he began, impetuously; "I fear I shall lose
your respect forever. But I can't go on any longer detesting myself and
feeling that you and Miss Hargrove despise me. I may seem to you and her
a fickle fool, a man of straw, but you shall both know the truth. I
shan't go away a coward. I can at least be honest, and then you may think
what you please of my weakness and vacillation. You cannot think worse
things than I think myself, but you must not imagine that I am a
cold-blooded, deliberate trifler, for that has never been true. I know
you don't care for me, and never did."

"Indeed, Burt, you are mistaken. I do care for you immensely," said Amy,
eagerly clasping his arm with both her hands.

"Amy, Amy," said Burt, in a low, desperate tone, "think how few short
months have passed since I told you I loved you, and protested I would
wait till I was gray. You have seen me giving my thoughts to another, and
in your mind you expect to see me carried away by a half-dozen more. You
are mistaken, but it will take a long time to prove it."

"No, Burt, I understand you better than you think. Gertrude has inspired
in you a very different feeling from the one you had for me. I think you
are loving now with a man's love, and won't get over it very soon, if you
ever do. You have seen, you must have felt, that my love for you was only
that of a sister, and of course you soon began to feel toward me in the
same way. I don't believe I would have married you had you waited an age.
Don't fret, I'm not going to break my heart about you."

"I should think not, nor will any one else. Oh, Amy, I so despised myself
that I have been half-desperate."

"Despised yourself because you love a girl like Gertrude Hargrove! I
never knew a man to do a more natural and sensible thing, whether she
gave you encouragement or not. If I were a man I would make love to her,
rest assured, and she would have to refuse me more than once to be rid of
me."

Burt took a long breath of immense relief. "You are heavenly kind," he
said. "Are you sure you won't despise me? I could not bear that. It seems
to me that I have done such an awfully mean thing in making love to you
in my own home, and then in changing."

Her laugh rang out merrily. "Fate has been too strong for you, and I
think--I mean--I hope, it has been kind. Bless you, Burt, I could never
get up any such feeling as sways you. I should always be disappointing,
and you would have found out, sooner or later, that your best chance
would be to discover some one more responsive. Since you have been so
frank, I'll be so too. I was scarcely more ready for your words last
spring than Johnnie, but I was simple enough to think that in half a
dozen years or so we might be married if all thought it was best, and my
pride was a little hurt when I saw what--what--well, Gertrude's influence
over you. But I've grown much older the last few months, and know now
that my thoughts were those of a child. My feeling for you is simply that
of a sister, and I don't believe it would ever have changed. Who knows? I
might eventually have an acute attack also, and then I should be in a
worse predicament than yours."

"But you will be my loving sister as long as you live, Amy? You will
believe that I have a little manhood if given a chance to show it?"

"I believe it now, Burt, and I can make you a hundredfold better sister
than wife. The idea! It seems but the other day I was playing with dolls.
Here, now, cheer up. You have judged yourself too harshly;" and she
looked at him so smilingly and affectionately that he took her in his
arms and kissed her again and again, exclaiming, "You can count on one
brother to the last drop of his blood. Oh, Amy, whatever happens now, I
won't lose courage. Miss Hargrove will have to say no a dozen times
before she is through with me."

At this moment Webb, from the top of a tall ladder in the orchard,
happened to glance that way, and saw the embrace. He instantly descended,
threw down his basket of apples, and with it all hope. Burt had won Amy
at last. The coolness between them had been but a misunderstanding, which
apparently had been banished most decidedly. He mechanically took down
his ladder and placed it on the ground, then went to his room to prepare
for supper.

"Burt," cried Amy, when they were half-way home, "you have forgotten your
horse."

"If he were Pegasus, I should have forgotten him to-day. Won't you wait
for me?"

"Oh, yes, I'll do anything for you."

"Will you?" he said, eagerly. "Will you tell me if you think Miss
Hargrove--"

"No, I won't tell you anything. The idea! After she has refused you half
a dozen times, I may, out of pity, intercede a little. Go get your horse,
smooth your brow, and be sensible, or you'll have Webb and Leonard poking
fun at you. Suppose they have seen you galloping over fences and ditches
like one possessed."

"Well, I was possessed, and never was there such a kind, gentle exorcist.
I have seen Miss Hargrove to-day; I had just parted from her."

"Did you say anything?"

"No, Amy. How could I, until I had told you? I felt I was bound to you by
all that can bind a man."

"Oh, Burt, suppose I had not released you, but played Shylock, what would
you have done?" and her laugh rang out again in intense merriment.

"I had no fears of that," he replied, ruefully. "You are the last one to
practice Mrs. MacStinger's tactics. My fear was that you and Miss
Hargrove both would send me West as a precious good riddance."

"Well, it was square of you, as Alf says, to come to me first, and I
appreciate it, but I should not have resented the omission. Will you
forgive my curiosity if I ask what is the next move in the campaign? I've
been reading about the war, you know, and I am quite military in my
ideas."

"I have Miss Hargrove's permission to call to-night. It wasn't given very
cordially, and she asked me to bring you."

"No, I thank yon."

"Oh, I told her she would have to forgive me if I came alone. I meant to
have it out to-day, if old Chaos came again." When Amy's renewed laughter
so subsided that he could speak, he resumed: "I'm going over there after
supper, to ask her father for permission to pay my addresses, and if he
won't give it, I shall tell him I will pay them all the same--that I
shall use every effort in my power to win his daughter. I don't want a
dollar of his money, but I'm bound to have the girl if she'll ever listen
to me after knowing all you know."

Amy's laugh ceased, and she again clasped her hands on his arm. "Dear
Burt," she said, "your course now seems to me manly and straightforward.
I saw the strait you were in, but did not think you felt it so keenly. In
going West I feared you were about to run away from it. However Gertrude
may treat you, you have won my respect by your downright truth. She may
do as she pleases, but she can't despise you now. There goes your horse
to the stable. He has learned this afternoon that you are in no state of
mind to take care of him."

CHAPTER LV

BURT TELLS HIS LOVE AGAIN

Webb appeared at the supper-table the personification of quiet geniality,
but Amy thought she had never seen him look so hollow-eyed. The long
strain was beginning to tell on him, decidedly, and to-night he felt as
if he had received a mortal blow. But with indomitable courage he hid his
wound, and seemed absorbed in a conversation with Leonard and his father
about the different varieties of apples, and their relative value. Amy
saw that his mother was looking at him anxiously, and she did not wonder.
He was growing thin even to gauntness.

Burt also was an arrant dissembler, and on rising from the table remarked
casually that he was going over to bid Miss Hargrove good-by, as she
would return to town on the morrow.

"She'll surely come and see us before she goes," Mrs. Clifford remarked.
"It seems to me she hasn't been very sociable of late."

"Certainly," said Amy. "She'll be over in the morning. She told me she
was coming to say good-by to us all, and she has asked me to visit her.
Come, Webb, you look all tired out to-night. Let me read to you. I'll
stumble through the dryest scientific treatise you have if I can see you
resting on the sofa."

"That's ever so kind of you, Amy, and I appreciate it more than you
imagine, but I'm going out this evening."

"Oh, of course, sisters are of no account. What girl are _you_ going
to see?"

"No girl whatever. I am too old and dull to entertain the pretty
creatures."

"Don't be fishing. You know one you could entertain if she isn't a pretty
creature, but then she's only a sister who doesn't know much."

"I'm sorry--I must go," he said, a little abruptly, for her lovely,
half-laughing, half-reproachful face, turned to his, contained such
mocking promise of happiness that he could not look upon it. What was his
urgent business? His rapid steps as he walked mile after mile indicated
that the matter was pressing indeed; but, although it was late before he
returned, he had spoken to no one. The house was dark and silent except
that a light was burning in Burt's room. And his momentous fortunes the
reader must now follow.

Miss Hargrove, with a fluttering heart, heard the rapid feet of his horse
as he rode up the avenue. Truly, he was coming at a lover's pace. The
door-bell rang, she heard him admitted, and expected the maid's tap at
her door to follow. Why did it not come? Were the tumultuous throbs of
her heart so loud that she could not hear it? What had become of him? She
waited and listened in vain. She opened her door slightly; there was no
sound. She went to her window. There below, like a shadow, stood a
saddled horse. Where was the knight? Had the stupid girl shown him into
the drawing-room and left him there? Surely the well-trained servant had
never been guilty of such a blunder before. Could it have been some one
else who had come to see her father on business? She stole down the
stairway in a tremor of apprehension, and strolled into the parlor in the
most nonchalant manner imaginable. It was lighted, but empty, and her
expression suddenly became one of troubled perplexity. She returned to
the hall, and started as if she had seen an apparition. There on the rack
hung Burt's hat, as natural as life. Voices reached her ear from her
father's study. She took a few swift steps toward it, then fled to her
room, and stood panting before her mirror, which reflected a young lady
in a costume charmingly ill adapted to "packing."

How flow swiftly the minutes passed! how eternally long they were! Would
she be sent for? _When_ would she be sent for? "It was honorable in
him to speak to papa first, and papa would not, could not, answer him
without consulting me. I cannot be treated as a child any longer," she
muttered, with flashing eyes. "Papa loves me," she murmured, in swift
alternation of gentle feeling. "He could not make my happiness secondary
to a paltry sum of money."

Meanwhile Burt was pleading his cause. Mr. Hargrove had greeted him with
no little surprise. The parting of the young people had not promised any
such interview.

"Have you spoken to my daughter on this subject?" Mr. Hargrove asked,
gravely, after the young fellow had rather incoherently made known his
errand.

"No, sir," replied Burt, "I have not secured your permission. At the same
time," he added, with an ominous flash in his blue eyes, "sincerity
compels me to say that I could not take a final refusal from any lips
except those of your daughter, and not readily from hers. I would not
give up effort to win her until convinced that any amount of patient
endeavor was useless. I should not persecute her, but I would ask her to
reconsider an adverse answer as often as she would permit, and I will try
with all my soul to render myself more worthy of her."

"In other words," began Mr. Hargrove, severely, "if I should decline this
honor, I should count for nothing."

"No, sir, I do not mean that, and I hope I haven't said it, even by
implication. Your consent that I should have a fair field in which to do
my best would receive from me boundless gratitude. What I mean to say is,
that I could not give her up; I should not think it right to do so. This
question is vital to me, and I know of no reason," he added, a little
haughtily, "why I should be refused a privilege which is considered the
right of every gentleman."

"I have not in the slightest degree raised the question of your being a
gentleman, Mr. Clifford. Your course in coming to me before revealing
your regard to my daughter proves that you are one. But you should
realize that you are asking a great deal of me. My child's happiness is
my first and only consideration. You know the condition of life to which
my daughter has been accustomed. It is right and natural that I should
also know something of your prospects, your ability to meet the
obligations into which you wish to enter."

Poor Burt flushed painfully, and hesitated. After a moment he answered,
with a dignity and an evident sincerity which won golden opinions from
Mr. Hargrove: "I shall not try to mislead you in the least on this point.
For my own sake I wish that your daughter were far poorer than I am. I
can say little more than that I could give her a home now and every
comfort of life. I could not now provide for her the luxury to which she
has been accustomed. But I am willing to wait and eager to work. In youth
and health and a fair degree of education I have some capital in addition
to the start in life which my father has promised to his sons. What could
not Miss Hargrove inspire a man to do?"

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