Oh! the rarity of that early June morning when a trio of happy beings mounted their eager horses. The dawn was still in the east, where roseate clouds hung soft and low on the crests of the mountains. In the shadows the blueness of the fleeing night still lingered. The air was unusually soft for the early hour and birds twittered to arouse their tardy nest-mates.
The tamaracks were now the softest, tenderest green, and in the dawning light seemed like soft billows of sea foam which had been flung through the miles of space and caught in the outstretched arms of the tall monarchs of the hills. It was only a little after five o’clock, but the long ride of twenty-five miles to St. Ignatius Mission demanded an early start, so that the horses might be well rested before returning to HW ranch.
Henry West was cramming into the pockets of his mackinaw what later proved to be some appetizing sandwiches; for he knew Fletcher’s returning health and vigor caused insatiable demand for “grub.” Mrs. West had thoughtfully prepared the lunch as they were hurrying to get started. Now she stood in the open doorway, smiling good-byes to her family.
Bess looked beautifully charming in her well-fitted jacket and divided skirt of reseda green. A filmy white veil was tied over her sombrero and floated over her shoulder in long loops like a fleecy cloud nestling against her soft, brown tresses. At her throat showed the soft whiteness of her shirt waist, for, “was it not Sunday, and were they not going to church, and ought they not to be dressed in their best?” she argued when James asked why she had not worn her corduroy suit for the long, dusty ride. Bess wished secretly that she, too might wear the leathern “chapps” like the boys; as they seemed so much more comfortable than a lot of useless cloth about one. She vowed inwardly that some day, when no one was looking, she would try the “chapps,” and if they proved satisfactory why should she not wear them too?
The horses made good time at a steady gait, and all were so preoccupied that only a few desultory remarks were exchanged. As the miles grew in number the dawn became brighter and brighter, till now old Sol shot forth his streaming gold and a new and glorious day began.
“This will be a very warm day,” remarked Henry West, after a deliberate survey of the sky. “It feels like a weather-breeder and I think we’ll have a heavy rain by night.” He unfastened his mackinaw, and the breeze blew out his soft, white, silk shirt in little fat puffs.
They passed groups of fine, sleek cattle and horses, the HW brand being the most conspicuous among them. Suddenly Henry West gave Eagle a swift turn on the bridle and sped across the grass till he came upon some strange calves. From the distance intervening Bess and James watched him wonderingly and with interest. When he returned to them his face was lowering. James was about to ask what was wrong, but thought if it were anything of interest to him that Henry would tell him.
On and on they rode, now in a swift gallop, for the road was smooth and hard, and by this time the horses had their “second wind.”
Bess’ inquisitiveness got the better of her, and she cried: “For pity’s sake, Henry, do tell me what is wrong! Can’t you see I’m just bursting to know?” And she gave her contumacious hair a vigorous thrust under her sombrero.
West began slowly: “James, in your riding over the range, have you noticed among any of my cows a scrub, measly-looking red bull? Those calves, back there, show his ear-marks. Last year I told old Savaeau that if he did not kill that damned nuisance I would the first chance I got. And here this season’s calves are again contaminated by scrub breeding.”
Bess had grown so accustomed to hearing discussions of all kinds concerning the cattle and horses that she was deeply interested, and now, before James had time to reply, she spoke:
“Do you know that about three days ago when I was going over to Polson I came across several of your cows and a most terrible looking animal with them! He had a big head like a buffalo, and a dreadful hump; the rest of him looked like—well, like—just cow. Is that the one you are looking for?” She was surprised and hurt at the look the boys gave each other, and then roars and peals of laughter rent the air.
Bess’ cheeks flamed up red and hot, and she gave Mauchacho a cut across the flanks which caused him to leap forward in surprise, and he sped like a streak down the winding road and out of sight behind a low hill. Tears sprang into the girl’s eyes, not so much perhaps at the exchanged glances and laughter, as at the thought that perhaps her unsolicited interest had been misconstrued. She now quietly checked Mauchacho and hastily pulled off her jacket. She brushed her wet cheeks with her sleeve in her haste to appear nonchalant to the approaching horsemen, whom she could hear hastening after her. To her dismay, she discovered that her immaculate sleeve was now all grimy and dust-streaked and knew that her face too must be streaked with dirt. Luckily she had just reached a stream of clear, cold water, and she slipped off her horse and was already bathing her face when Henry West reached her.
He stood silently behind her, watching the lithe, graceful girl, as she bent down to kiss the stream. She glanced over her shoulder, her face dripping with the cool water, her hair wet and falling over her eyes.
“I did not cry—so there—you need not look so sorry,” she said, with half pouting lips that could no longer resist the pulsates of her happy nature, and involuntarily she burst into a merry laugh.
“I am really sorry to have been so rude as to laugh at your remarks, Miss Fletcher,” West was saying, and again he tried in vain to restrain himself.
“What’s up, Sister; fall in the creek?”
“No, I was just trying to drown my sorrow when this gentleman interfered and I took a drink instead,” Bess replied facetiously, and when they again resumed their journey each was light-hearted once more.
“Please tell me, James, what was the thing I tried to describe, will you?” Bess asked, as she and James had fallen behind Eagle for a little way.
“Why, that was a cattelo, which is part buffalo and part cow. They are rather dreadful looking creatures, to be sure, and I can’t see why West raises them, unless because the hides are valuable, and perhaps the meat has a rare flavor.”
It was now after eight o’clock and West said that they would soon come in sight of St. Ignatius. A short distance ahead of them walked a hurrying priest. One hand tightly clasped a prayer book, while the other tried in vain to lift the already begrimed cassock out of the dust. The boys lifted their sombreros in salutation, and to Bess’ cheery “Good morning, Father,” the priest gave her a smile and a “God bless you.”
At last they saw the beautiful grounds of the Mission, with its church spire and the roofs of the many buildings, interspersed with the trees, whose fresh, green foliage was invitingly cool. The sun had grown unusually warm for early morning and eagerly the girl reined her horse in the refreshing shadows of the trees.
The bell suddenly pealed forth, and they hastened to dismount. West cared for the horses and James led Bess into the beautiful little church. The sight that met their eyes was strange to Eastern eyes. Indians knelt with their bright-colored blankets wrapped closely about them. The candles fluttered on the altar profusely covered with early spring flowers. James sought the Wests’ pew and led his sister there. As she sunk on her knees to pray the organ sounded and in marched the somberly-clad nuns, followed by the many Indian children who were attending school. The entire service passed like a dream to Bess; and she was often distracted watching the children at their prayers, listening to their sweet, untrained voices in the choir, or analyzing some Indian, stoically moving his lips in prayer.
“Mea culpa, mea culpa—” murmured Bess, half audibly, as she heard others striking their breasts; and she half turned to see if Henry West had yet come into the seat beside them. He was not there, nor did he come. “He is perhaps in the rear,” thought Bess. It was not long till they knelt for the blessing, and soon all were filing out of the church. Bess left James at the door, saying she wished to wander through the gardens.
What a profusion of blooming shrubs! The air was sweet with the fruit blossoms, and all along the paths were wonderfully fragrant pansies, violets, and other early flowers. Near the church was the cemetery with its numerous white-painted crosses. As Bess looked through the enclosure she was attracted by an imposing monument, and, curious to learn what distinguished person had found his last resting place here, she entered God’s Acre. As she neared the grave she saw Henry West kneeling in the shadow of the monument, his face buried in his arm as he leaned against the stone. Bess suddenly halted. Never in her life had she beheld such despair. Either he had heard her approach or intuitively felt she was near, for without lifting his head he stretched forth a hand to her. She could not resist the appeal. She grasped his hard and swarthy hand, and unconsciously clasped it to her breast.
In a moment a face, pale and drawn, was raised to meet her sympathetic gaze. He tried to speak, but could utter no word. Releasing his hand he pointed slowly to the tiny cross at his feet.
Bess dropped to her knees and read the word HELEN. That was all. That was enough. What could cold, hard words tell of her who was sleeping there? “Helen,” the world might read, and perhaps give a sigh. “Helen,” the man now read, and his heart yearned for his dear, lost sister and for the love that had been torn from him. What idle print could show the grief and misery that had broken that young heart?
“Helen” was all Bess saw, and yet intuitively she read pages of love, sacrifice, heartaches, hope, pain and glory. She arose, and impulsively placing both her hands against the dark man’s face, she said in a whisper of sympathy, “Henry—Henry! Why cannot I be your sister? Let me fill her place in your heart! Let me take up the broken thread and finish the weaving! Can I? May I?”
My God! What was she saying! What had he heard? “Henry, Henry” rang in the man’s ears, sweeter than any music. She had spoken his name, now, today; and how he had longed to hear her lips frame that homely word. He re-caught the echo of her appeal. It was not love that prompted her then; it was only pity. Were love and pity akin? When he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to reply he clasped both her hands in his own for a brief moment. Then he stepped back and flung up his head. With set jaws he said, in such a low voice that Bess leaned forward on the tiny marble cross to catch the words, “I could not go into the church—I could not pray while hatred tore my heart in pieces—I could not forget her—her misery—I stayed here near her—to tell her again she shall be aven—” Hastily collecting himself and smothering his passion, he continued, “Thank you, little girl—Bess, I may now say; thank you for your sympathy and your pity. I know you are sincere, but somehow—somehow—there is still a void here,” as he clutched at his pounding heart. “Your words do not suffice—they cannot, will not. No, only she—Helen—could be a sister.”
Had Bess not been so unsophisticated she would have understood the subtle meaning of his words. As it was, she only felt her unworthiness, and was sorry her impulsive nature had thrust itself forward.
For a moment there was an awkward silence, which Henry West relieved: “Come, I will show you about the grounds and buildings. James is visiting with Father Damien, over there near the church,” and he led the silent girl away.
Presently they were viewing with interest all the beauties of the place. Here were fine, substantial, brick school buildings, one for the girls and another for the boys, where they were taught all useful and instructive arts. The broad fields were in a high state of cultivation, and the trees of the orchard gave promise of an abundant harvest, so laden were they with lingering blossoms and fast-forming fruit. This seemed to be the very choicest bit of the reservation, where years and years ago came the Jesuit priests, and where, during all this time, they had labored zealously for the temporal and spiritual welfare of the Indian children.
Seated in a wheel chair, in a sunny exposure of the garden, they came upon a black-robed nun with another nun standing near her. As Bess and Henry West approached the one turned to meet them. What a dear, young face was that which upturned to meet Bess’ interested look. What an expression of human understanding lighted up the deep blue eyes, as the girl said to her, “Good morning, Sister; are you enjoying God’s beautiful sunshine?”
“Yes, dear; Sister Mary Joseph can scarcely be inveigled indoors now that the sun is becoming so fervent. Well! Well!” the nun interrupted, “if here isn’t Henry West! See! Sister Mary Joseph, who has honored us with a visit today!”
Henry West stepped forward holding his sombrero in his hands. “This is Miss Bess Fletcher, James’ sister;” he said, “and Bess, this is Sister Mary Joseph, and Sister Agnes.”
Bess bent over the aged nun, who, with difficulty, lifted her hand. But, although the face was lined and seamed by the hand of time and the hardships of frontier life, the smiles of welcome and greeting were made of that kind of woof and warp which never show the ravages of age. Henry explained, “Sister Mary Joseph has been here ever since 1865, and has seen all the vicissitudes of St. Ignatius Mission.”
Bess longed to hear the dear old woman relate some of the wonderful experiences which she had seen and in which she herself had been an important factor, but the bell was calling for the second mass, and as Sister Agnes was just then relieved from her duty by another nun, she asked Bess to accompany her to the church and sing.
Henry West had gone on and joined James at the door.
At the offertory Bess sang Mascagni’s Ave Maria, and as her soft, glorious voice arose and fell in beautiful tone waves, even Father Damien and the Indians held their breath for fear of losing a sound.
When Bess had finished Sister Agnes kissed her cheek, and left the imprint of her own wet one.