The Knight Errant by Ethel M. Dell
Chapter XII. The Knight Errant Plays the Game
She began to command herself at last, and to be inexpressibly ashamed of her weakness. She sat in silence, accepting his ministrations, till Rivington proceeded to tear his handkerchief into strips for bandaging purposes; then she put out a protesting hand.
"You--you shouldn't!" she said rather tremulously.
He looked at her with his kindly smile.
"It's all right, Chirpy. I've got another."
She tried to laugh. It was a valiant effort.
"I know I'm a horrid nuisance to you. It's nice of you to pretend you don't mind."
"I never pretend," said Rivington, with a touch of grimness. "Do you think you will be able to get your stocking over that?"
"I think so."
"Try!" he said.
She tried and succeeded.
"That's better," said Rivington. "Now for the shoes. I can put them on."
"I don't like you to," she murmured.
"Knights errant always do that," he assured her. "It's part of the game. Come! That's splendid! How does it feel?"
"I think I can bear it," she said, under her breath.
He drew it instantly off again.
"No, you can't. Or, at least, you are not going to. Look here, Chirpy, my dear, I think you must let me carry you, anyhow to the caravan. It isn't far, and I can fetch you some slippers from the mill from there. What? You don't mind, do you? An old friend like me, and a poor relation into the bargain?" The blue eyes smiled at her quizzically, and very persuasively.
But her white face crimsoned, and she turned it aside.
"I don't want you to," she said piteously.
"No, but you'll put up with it!" he urged. "It's too small a thing to argue about, and you have too much sense to refuse."
He rose with the words. She looked up at him with quivering lips.
"You wouldn't do it--if I refused?" she faltered.
The smile went out of his eyes.
"I shall never do anything against your will," he said. "But I don't know how you will get back if I don't."
She pondered this for a moment, then, impulsively as a child, stretched up her arms to him.
"All right, Knight Errant. You may," she said.
And he bent and lifted her without further words.
They scarcely spoke during that journey. Only once, towards the end of it, Ernestine asked him if he were tired, and he scouted the idea with a laugh.
When they reached the caravan, and he set her down upon the step, she thanked him meekly.
"We will have tea," said Rivington, and proceeded to forage for the necessaries for this meal in a locker inside the caravan.
He brought out a spirit-lamp and boiled some water. The actual making of the tea he relegated to Ernestine.
"A woman does it better than a man," he said.
And while she was thus occupied, he produced cups and saucers, and a tin of biscuits, and laid the cloth. Finally, he seated himself on the grass below her, and began with evident enjoyment to partake with her of the meal thus provided.
When it was over, he washed up, she drying the cups and saucers, and striving with somewhat doubtful success to appear normal and unconstrained.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked, at the end of this.
"Of course not," she answered, and he brought out the briar pipe forthwith.
She watched him fill and light it, her chin upon her hand. She was still very pale, and the fear had not gone wholly from her eyes.
"Now I'm going to talk to you," Rivington announced.
"Yes?" she said rather faintly.
He lay back with his arms under his head, and stared up through the beech boughs to the cloudless evening sky.
"I want you first of all to remember," he said, "that what I said a little while ago I meant--and shall mean for all time. I will never do anything, Chirpy, against your will."
He spoke deliberately. He was puffing the smoke upward in long spirals.
"That is quite understood, is it?" he asked, as she did not speak.
"I think so," said Ernestine slowly.
"I want you to be quite sure," he said. "Otherwise, what I am going to say may startle you."
"Don't frighten me!" she begged, in a whisper.
"My dear child, I sha'n't frighten you," he rejoined. "You may frighten yourself. That is what I am trying to guard against."
Her laugh had a piteous quiver in it.
"You think me very young and foolish, don't you?" she said.
He sat up and looked at her.
"I think," he said, "that you stand in very serious need of someone to look after you."
She made a slight, impatient movement.
"Why go over old ground? If you really have any definite suggestion to make, why not make it?"
Rivington clasped his hands about his knees. He continued to look at her speculatively, his pipe between his teeth.
"Look here, Chirpy," he said, after a moment, "I can't help thinking that you would be better off and a good deal happier if you married."
"If I--married!" Her eyes flashed startled interrogation at him. "If I--married!" she repeated almost fiercely. "I would rather die!"
"I didn't suggest that you should marry Dinghra," he pointed out mildly. "He is not the only man in the world."
The hot colour rushed up over her face.
"He is the only one that ever wanted me," she said, in a muffled tone.
"Quite sure of that?" said Rivington.
She did not answer him. She was playing nervously with a straw that she had pulled from the floor of the caravan. Her eyes were downcast.
"What about me?" said Rivington. "Think you could put up with me as a husband?"
She shook her head in silence.
"Why not?" he said gently.
Again she shook her head.
He knelt up suddenly beside her, discarding his pipe, and laid his hand on hers.
"Tell me why not," he said.
A little tremor went through her at his touch. She did not raise her eyes.
"It wouldn't do," she said, her voice very low.
"You don't like me?" he questioned.
"Yes; I like you. It isn't that."
"Then--what is it, Chirpy? I believe you are afraid of me," he said half quizzically.
"I'm not!" she declared, with vehemence. "I'm not such a donkey! No, Knight Errant, I'm only afraid for you."
"I don't quite grasp your meaning," he said.
With an effort she explained.
"You see, you don't know me very well--not nearly so well as I know you."
"I know you well enough to be fond of you, Chirpy," he said.
"That is just because you don't know me," she said, her voice quivering a little. "You wouldn't like me for long, Knight Errant. Men never do."
"More fools they," said the knight errant, with somewhat unusual emphasis. "It's their loss, anyway."
She laughed a little.
"It's very nice of you to say so, but it doesn't alter the fact. Besides--" She paused.
"Besides--" said Rivington.
She looked at him suddenly.
"What about that nice little woman who may turn up some day?"
The humorous corner of Rivington's mouth went up.
"I think she has, Chirpy," he said. "To tell you the honest truth, I've been thinking so for some time."
"You really want to marry me?" Ernestine looked him straight in the eyes. "It isn't--only--a chivalrous impulse?"
He met her look quite steadily.
"No," he said quietly; "it isn't--only--that."
Her eyes fell away from his.
"I haven't any money, you know," she said.
"Never mind about the money," he answered cheerily. "I have a little, enough to keep us from starvation. I can make more. It will do me good to work. It's settled, then? You'll have me?"
"If--if you are sure--" she faltered. Then impulsively, "Oh, it's hateful to feel that I've thrown myself at your head!"
His hand closed upon hers with a restraining pressure.
"You mustn't say those things to me, Chirpy," he said quietly; "they hurt me. Now let me tell you my plans. Do you know what I did when I got back to town the other day? I went and bought a special marriage licence. You see, I wanted to marry you even then, and I hoped that before very long I should persuade you to have me. As soon as I got your telegram, I went off and purchased a wedding-ring. I hope it will fit. But, anyhow, it will serve our present purpose. Will you drive with me into Rington to-morrow and marry me there?"
She was listening to him in wide-eyed amazement.
"So soon?" she said.
"I thought it would save any further trouble," he answered. "But it is for you to decide."
"And--and what should we do afterwards?" she asked, stooping to pick up her straw that had fallen to the ground.
"That, again, would be for you to decide," he answered. "I would take you straight back to your mother if you wished."
She gave a muffled laugh.
"Of course I shouldn't want you to do that."
"Or," proceeded Rivington, "I would hire an animal to draw the caravan, and we would go for a holiday in the forest. Would it bore you?"
"I don't think so," she said, without looking at him. "I--I could sketch, you know, and you could paint."
"To be sure," he said. "Shall we do that, then?"
She began to split the straw with minute care.
"You think there is no danger of--Dinghra?" she said, after a moment.
Rivington smiled grimly, and got to his feet. "Not the smallest," he said.
"He might come back," she persisted. "What if--what if he tried to murder you?"
Rivington was coaxing his pipe back to life. He accomplished his object before he replied. Then:
"You need not have the faintest fear of that," he said. "Dinghra has had the advantage of a public-school education. He has doubtless been thrashed before."
"He is vindictive," she objected.
"He may be, but he is shrewd enough to know when the game is up. Frankly, Chirpy, I don't think the prospect of pestering you, or even of punishing me, will induce him to take the field again after we are married. No"--he smiled down at her--"I think I have cooled his ardour too effectually for that."
"I shall never forget it."
He patted her shoulder reassuringly.
"I think you will, Chirpy. Or at least you will place it in the same category as the bull incident. You will forget the fright, and remember only with kindness the Knight Errant who had the good fortune to pull you through."
She reached up and squeezed his hand, still without looking at him.
"I shall always do that," she said softly.
"Then that's settled," said Rivington in a tone of quiet satisfaction.