“It does seem so good to be home again where it is cool and clean and cozy,” said Bess, as she flung herself into an easy porch chair the morning of their return from the County-seat. She scanned with interest the tall, magnificent pines and firs which bordered the lake, as if she had been away from them months instead of days. A half-drawn glove was held in her clasp, as she lifted her hands to her eyes better to discern some horsemen whom she saw in the distance.
“Little Mother,” she cried, “come quickly; I believe those are the boys returning!”
Mrs. West came hurrying out with a pair of field glasses, and soon the two were hastening out of the gate and down the road to see “the boys.” For a moment they were out of sight behind the low hill, then suddenly, a single horseman came into sight, riding swiftly toward them. In a moment more Henry West sprang to the ground and held both his mother’s hands as he pressed his tanned and roughened cheek against hers.
Turning to Bess with the gladness of return shining in his eyes and ringing from his voice, he said, “Oh, it seems so good to be home again! We had a long, hard siege of it this trip. But where are you going?” as he noticed she still wore her hat.
Bess had suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. She could not reply. His mother explained that they had just returned from Kalispell and that she was glad they were at home when he arrived. Just then James Fletcher with several of the cowboys came riding up.
“Well, little sister, are you so glad to see us that you can’t control your laughing?” said James, jumping from his horse and giving Bess such a hearty squeeze that she gasped for breath.
“Really, Henry, if you could see how funny you look with that—that little goatee, I guess you call it!”
Henry gave the whiskers a stroke or two, and replied in a joking manner entirely foreign to himself, “You see, ‘noblesse oblige’. I was chosen foreman of the round-up, and so grew this to give me dignity.”
“Yes, Henry could not have carried on the round-up had not the boys been awed by the whiskers,” added James, looking at Henry, and they both laughed as numerous jokes recurred to them.
“To say the least, they are awful, don’t you think so, little Mother? Please boys, go hurry and shave and look like yourselves again.”
The long, delightful afternoon was spent in lounging in the hammock or resting in the quiet, cool rooms. Bess sang for the boys and they listened, as if they had been isolated for months. Presently James fell asleep, and Henry moved nearer to the piano where he could watch the girl’s face as she sang. Song after song fell in soft cadences from her lips and held the man entranced. How dear she looked in the simple white dress, with some wild rose-buds in the knot of hair at her neck. Tiny, stray locks half hid her eyes and made them a soft, deep brown. Now she began the low, indecisive minor of Nevins’ ‘Mon Desir,’ and as her rich, melodious voice framed the words, an involuntary sigh escaped the man who stood so near her. Stretching out his hand he placed it abruptly over hers on the piano, and with a trembling voice and eyes brilliant with emotion asked Bess to cease.
“Why, Henry—your favorite song,” said Bess, astonished.
“Not today—I can’t—hear—it—today.” He turned abruptly and quitted the room.
James stirred and stretched his arms with a yawn, saying, “Didn’t I just hear you sing ‘My Desire’, sister? Go on, finish it!”
But Bess, rising from the seat, closed the music, gently and tenderly, as if she were concealing some sacred thing.
“Not today; I could not sing it again—today.” Going through the open door she sought the splashing spring near the house, where she sat dreaming and wondering—wondering at the strange moods of Henry West. The shadows of the trees were lengthening perceptibly, and a tiny chill in the air warned her that it must be nearly dinner time. She stooped to bathe her face in the clear, cold stream, where it flowed through the hewn trough, and at once felt refreshed, bright and alert. By the time she reached the house she was unconsciously singing, and as the words—“Give me my desire” arose to her lips she felt rather than heard a deep sigh which came from behind the swaying curtains of the living-room. As she entered through the open door, she saw Henry West, reclining in a large chair, his hands clasped together above his head, in a restful attitude. All traces of the round-up were gone, save the deep brown of the sunburn on his face, which made him look almost as dark as a full blooded Indian, and contrasted strangely with the soft, white, silk shirt.
As Bess came near with a sweet smile lighting up her face, she asked, half coaxingly, “I wonder if you and James are too tired, or have ridden too much during the past three weeks, to go with me for a ride after dinner? We can go after the mail, and then cross on the ferry and ride over to the falls. They must be magnificent now that the water is so high. I could hear them roar as we came through Polson this morning. Mauchacho has not had his saddle on for days.”
She had not noticed until now how really tired and worn out the man looked. Three weeks of constant riding is a hard task, even for those who, one might say, live in the saddle. To have charge of the round-up; to manage successfully and skilfully the driving and separating of thousands of cattle and the correct branding of the calves; to see that each man performs his especial duty and his share and is not behind some protecting hill sitting on the ground, digging his spurs into the ground, watching his horse eat grass while the other “boys” are driving the cattle to the branding corrals; to do all these and many more duties dependent upon him, completely used up all of West’s reserve force.
“There—there—never mind—don’t say ‘yes’; really, I am selfish to forget how tired you both must be, indeed,” continued Bess anxiously, as West, with effort, lowered his arms and drew himself together. She took one of the rose-buds from her hair and carelessly fastened it in a button-hole of his shirt. The faint perfume arose to his nostrils, and for a moment made him quiver, as if he were cold. He gripped the arms of the chair, that his hands might not, against his will, clasp the girl and draw her down to him and hold her there forever. “Give me my desire, and then let me die,” the words of the sad, tragic song leaped to his mind.
“Really, Bess,” he explained, “James is quite worn out. He stood the round-up splendidly, and although I tried to give him easy shifts he insisted upon doing his share. I will go with you for a ride, and am not tired.”
“No, Henry, we will just stay at home, and you and James shall tell me all about the experiences of the past few weeks.”
As they went into the dining-room a large box was at Bess’ place at the table. Her face and neck dyed crimson as she caught sight of it, for well she knew what it contained and who was the sender. She would have placed it aside, but James and Mrs. West coaxingly demanded to see the contents. Her trembling fingers could scarcely untie the cord. Henry, who sat beside her, offered his assistance, and as she removed the cover and green, waxen paper and lifted the large, white roses to her face, a card fell at Henry’s plate.
“Oh! a card too! Let’s see, Henry, who it is that sent the conservatory,” cried James, who never missed an opportunity to tease his sister. But Henry, without even glancing at the card, placed it among the flowers which Bess held in her arms. Her first impulse was to flee, but instead, she stood up straight and firm, and with an impulsive gesture gave the card to Mrs. West. “Read, Mother,” demanded the girl, “and tell who sent these and many others to us,” with especial emphasis on the last word.
“This time, dearie, I fear we are not in partnership. James, you know who sent the roses; the card reads, ‘To my sweetheart,’” said Mrs. West softly, as she again replaced the card.
“I congratulate you Miss—Bess,” remarked Henry, his face suddenly grown pale.
“So do I, Sister; Davis is a bully good fellow, I think, and I’m sure he’d make a great brother,” added James before the girl could speak the words of expostulation which rushed to her lips.
She crushed the roses to her breast and a shower of white petals fell to the floor. One fluttered against West’s hand, and he started as if a poisonous insect stung him.
Mrs. West quickly saw the girl’s deep confusion and came to her aid, remarking that the two were rather hasty in their congratulations, which, as yet, were most inopportune.
As Bess seated herself, she let the roses slide unheeded from her lap to the floor. Henry West stooped, lifted the now bruised and broken blossoms, and going into the living-room placed them upon the folded copy of Mon Desir, as gently and as reverently as if they were laid upon the silent breast of a lost and dead love.