Part 20 (1/2)
”I was thinking of what you said about the High Valley.”
”Oh!”
”You've only seen it in summer, you know. It's quite a different place in the winter. I don't believe a--person--could live on the year round and be contented.”
”It would depend upon the person, of course.”
”If it were a lady,--yourself, for instance,--could it be made anyway tolerable, do you think? Of course, one might get away now and then--”
”I don't know. It's not easy to tell beforehand how people are going to feel; but I can't imagine the High Valley ever seeming like a prison,”
replied Clover, vexed to find herself blus.h.i.+ng, and yet unable to help it, Geoff's manner had such an odd intensity in it.
”If I were sure that you could realize what it would be--” he began impetuously; then quieting himself, ”but you don't. How could you? Ranch life is well enough in summer for a short time by way of a frolic; but in winter and spring with the Upper Canyon full of snow, and the road down muddy and slippery, and the storms and short days, and the sense of being shut in and lonely, it would be a dismal place for a lady. n.o.body has a right to expect a woman to undergo such a life.”
Clover absorbed herself in her sewing, she did not speak; but still that deep uncomfortable blush burned on her cheeks.
”What do you think?” persisted Geoff. ”Wouldn't it be inexcusable selfishness in a man to ask such a thing?”
”I think;” said Clover, shyly and softly, ”that a man has a right to ask for whatever he wants, and--” she paused.
”And--what?” urged Geoff, bending forward.
”Well, a woman has always the right to say no, if she doesn't want to say yes.”
”You tempt me awfully,” cried Geoff, starting up. ”When I think what this place is going to seem like after you've gone, and what the ranch will be with all the heart taken from it, and the loneliness made twice as lonely by comparison, I grow desperate, and feel as if I could not let you go without at least risking the question. But Clover,--let me call you so this once,--no woman could consent to such a life unless she cared very much for a man. Could you ever love me well enough for that, do you think?”
”It seems to me a very unfair sort of question to put,” said Clover, with a mischievous glint in her usually soft eyes. ”Suppose I said I could, and then you turned round and remarked that you were ever so sorry that you couldn't reciprocate my feelings--”
”Clover,” catching her hand, ”how can you torment me so? Is it necessary that I should tell you that I love you with every bit of heart that is in me, and need you and want you and long for you, but have never dared to hope that you could want me? Loveliest, sweetest, I do, and I always shall, whether it is yes or no.”
”Then, Geoff--if you feel like that--if you're quite sure you feel like that, I think--”
”What do you think, dearest?”
”I think--that I could be very happy even in winter--in the High Valley.”
And papa and the children, and the lonely and far-away feelings? There was never a mention of them in this frank acceptance. Oh, Clover, Clover, circ.u.mstances _do_ alter cases!
Mrs. Hope's rubber of whist seemed a long one, for Phil did not get home till a quarter before eleven, by which time the two by the fire had settled the whole progress of their future lives, while the last logs of the pinon wood crackled, smouldered, and at length broke apart into flaming brands. In imagination the little ranch house had thrown out as many wings and as easily as a newly-hatched dragon-fly, had been beautified and made convenient in all sorts of ways,--a flower-garden had sprouted round its base, plenty of room had been made for papa and the children and Katy and Ned, who were to come out continually for visits in the long lovely summers; they themselves also were to go to and fro,--to Burnet, and still farther afield, over seas to the old Devons.h.i.+re grange which Geoff remembered so fondly.
”How my mother and Isabel will delight in you,” he said; ”and the squire!
You are precisely the girl to take his fancy. We'll go over and see them as soon as we can, won't we, Clover?”
Clover listened delightedly to all these schemes, but through them all, like that young Irish lady who went over the marriage service with her lover adding at the end of every clause, ”Provided my father gives his consent,” she interposed a little running thread of protest,--”If papa is willing. You know, Geoff, I can't really promise anything till I've talked with papa.”
It was settled that until Dr. Carr had been consulted, the affair was not to be called an engagement, or spoken of to any one; only Clover asked Geoff to tell Clarence all about it at once.
The thought of Clarence was, in truth, the one cloud in her happiness just then. It was impossible to calculate how he would take the news. If it made him angry or very unhappy, if it broke up his friends.h.i.+p with Geoff, and perhaps interfered with their partners.h.i.+p so that one or other of them must leave the High Valley, Clover felt that it would grievously mar her contentment. There was no use in planning anything till they knew how he would feel and act. In any case, she realized that they were bound to consider him before themselves, and make it as easy and as little painful as possible. If he were vexatious, they must be patient; if sulky, they must be forbearing.
Phil opened his eyes very wide at the pair sitting so coseyly over the fire when at last he came in.