"You are no more my sister than your tirewoman there can be," he
answered, more warmly than he had spoken yet.
"I did not mean that," she said sadly.
"I do not understand, then."
"If you do not, how can I tell you what I mean?" She glanced at him and
then looked away quickly, for she was blushing, and was ashamed of her
boldness.
"Do you mean that I love you as I might a sister?" asked Gilbert, with
the grave tactlessness of a thoroughly honest man.
The blush deepened in her cheek, and she nodded slowly, still looking
away.
"Beatrix!"
"Well?" She would not turn to him.
"What have I done that you should say such a thing?"
"That is it!" she answered regretfully. "You have done great things,
but they were not for me."
"Have I not told you how I have thought of you day after day, hoping
that you might think well of my deeds?"
"Yes. But you might have done one thing more. That would have made all
the difference."
"What?" He bent anxiously towards her for the answer.
"You might have tried to see me."
"But I was never in the camp. I was always a day's march in the lead of
the army."
"But not always fighting. There were days, or nights, when you could
have ridden back. I would have met you anywhere--I would have ridden
hours to see you. But you never tried. And at last it is I who send for
you and beg you to come and talk with me here. And you do not even seem
glad to be with me."
"I did not think that I had a right to leave my post and come back,
even for you.
Pages:
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310