“Stand over there, Berenice, and let me look at you all I want,” said Bess, as she and her friend entered the living room.
Mrs. West, after the return from Polson, where she and Bess had gone together to meet their visitor, had slipped quietly away that the two young women might be alone during the first moments.
Berenice Morton did as requested and walked to the far end of the room. Bess clasped her hands across her breast as she feasted her eyes upon her friend. Tall, even taller than Bess herself, and graceful as a swaying reed, she moved with sweet dignity. As she turned about her large, grey eyes, with their dark lashes, her rosy cheeks, aflame with a new excitement, her lips curved in a sweet smile, made a picture, set in a frame of burnished light hair.
“Well—Bess, dear, isn’t this enough?” laughingly questioned Berenice, when she felt Bess had inspected her sufficiently.
“How your glasses change your looks! They make you seem so dignified that I really wonder if you are the same girl that used to help me play some of those dreadful pranks. Your hair, which you always declared was just like mine, is ever so much lighter, and—dear me!—so much ‘kinkier.’ Oh! If I only were g-r-a-n-d like you!”
“If I were only s-w-e-e-t like you!” replied Miss Morton, as again they embraced each other.
“Berenice, of course, I have ten million things to tell you, three of ‘whom’ are very important. But first you must get freshened up and rested. Then, after luncheon, I’ll take you to my den—’way off along the lake, where no one dares to go ’ceptin’ me,” she said, in a low, sepulchral tone, which might make one surmise all kinds of terrible things.
“Bess! don’t take me if there is any danger of mountain lions, or bears, or—or—Indians. Father made me promise to come back with my hair all on and with my body intact,” Berenice tried to say seriously, but her sparkling eyes belied her.
“How about your heart, Miss Lady? Did he warn you about that also?” laughed Bess, as she linked her arm through her friend’s and led her upstairs into her room.
“How perfectly dear, Bess! No wonder you have been so happy and contented here!”
“Do look at those wonderful mountains, that great expanse of water, those towering trees, that—oh! everything!” ejaculated the stranger, as she gazed out of the opened window. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Now, do you wonder at all the ravings my letters contained, Berenice?”
“No, I do not, and I do not wonder that you wrote that you could stay here always.”
“Always!” thought Bess, “always.” And yet soon would she leave this sublime beauty, and she could feast her heart only upon its memory. Could she make the sacrifice?
Bess left her friend and hastened to the dining-room to be of assistance there. She cautioned Mrs. West against saying anything at all concerning Mr. Davis, until she might announce her engagement to Miss Morton.
How deeply Mrs. West and Bess regretted that the “boys” would not reach home until tomorrow.
“And yet,” said Bess, “I am glad to get a chance for a word or two before James comes.”
A bunch of rose-berries, large and scarlet, intermingled with the white berries on stems of buck-bush, graced the center of the table, while at each plate lay a shining spray of Oregon grape leaves.
After the simple meal was finished the girls arose to leave the room. Berenice reached to pluck some of the rose-berries for her hair, when she abruptly gathered Mrs. West into her arms. She put her cheek against the soft, white hair and kissed her. Then, looking into the woman’s dark eyes: “My dear mother’s hair was like this,” she said, stroking it gently. “Bess tried to tell me in her letters of her ‘little Mother,’ but she failed. You are dear—more dear than one can say, or tell, or even feel.”
Mrs. West’s only reply to this unexpected declaration from the dignified stranger was a firm pressure of the girl’s hands. She watched the pair as they descended the steps and wandered off toward the lake shore, where she knew Bess sought her favorite retreat.
On and on they walked until at length they came to an abrupt rise in the ground. Bess led the way around the rocks to a huge boulder, softened by mosses and lichens, projecting far out from its supporting rocks. They bent their heads as they entered the partial enclosure, and were soon seated upon large, smooth blocks which had been sawed from a huge pine log. One had been utilized for a table, upon which lay several worn magazines. A thick carpet of pine needles which Bess had gathered and strewn in her den covered the floor. The opening was directly toward the lake, whose waters were now splashing with whitened foam upon the rocky shore.
“There—isn’t this a ‘really’ den? When I kill a bear and a mountain lion I shall place the skins in here; and the antlers from a buck shall be hung above the door.”
“What a splendid place to come and dream!”
“Yes,” answered Bess. “Henry West helped me to make the chairs, or rather the seats. It was warm work pulling on the big saw, but so competent did I prove that he offered to let me saw the winter’s supply of wood,” she laughed softly.
Wrapping a blanket about herself and choosing a comfortable seat, Berenice Morton sat anxiously waiting for Bess to begin relating the million important themes, but especially “the first three of whom.”
For several moments Bess gazed intently over the lake, huddled snugly in the folds of her blanket. Then, unfastening the beaded belt and withdrawing it from beneath its cover, pulling it slowly through her fingers, she said: “You—you will surely like Henry West.”
She paused for a moment, the while deeply thinking; then continued, deliberately: “So generous, thoughtful, kind; so tender with his mother; so human, so different, so—” and again her thoughts wandered in search of words fit to express her encomium.
“Do you care so much for him, dear? More than for anyone else?” asked the interested listener.
“Oh!—I—you see, Berenice—it was because of this belt, he saved my life,” came in an evasive reply.
Bess felt a wave of color surge over her face, and the blood in her heart began to pound violently as she briefly related the story of her perilous adventure and rescue.
“James and Henry West will reach home some time tomorrow, Berenice. James has tried to appear unconcerned ever since he knew you were coming this fall,” she laughed, “and I am inclined to believe that perhaps Miss Berenice Morton will be just a little de-e-lighted, too, when the morrow comes.” Bess gave her friend an impulsive squeeze that made reply an impossibility.
“Well—I’ve heard of Henry West and also concerning James Fletcher; what, pray, is the third item of interest?” asked Miss Morton, when she had again resumed her comfortable position.
Bess arose, dropping her blanket near the seat, and walked deliberately outside the opening of her “den.” Lifting both her hands to brush her hair from her face, then letting them rest, with fingers intertwined about her head, she turned and looked in at the awaiting listener.
“On the fifteenth of October I am to be married to Mr. Dave Davis, the Indian agent of this reservation!”
Berenice opened her eyes and mouth in wide amazement. Lifting her glasses from her nose and poising them in her fingers, she gazed with astonishment at Bess Fletcher.
“Bess! And you never told me a single word of him before!”
Bess then told her in as few words as possible of her brief courtship and the reason for the hasty marriage; she also outlined her few plans for the wedding, requesting that Berenice write for her father’s consent to prolong her visit, that she might assist as bridesmaid. Soon busy tongues were planning details, and by the time the sun’s slanting rays lighted up the tiny cavern and warned its occupants of the closing day, every item, each particular, had been planned for the coming nuptials.
The following day the girls began to watch early for the advent of James and Henry. Once, as they sighted several horsemen, they ran down the road, only to be disappointed. It was late in the afternoon, nearly dinner time, when at last they came, tired and dirty. Berenice wondered what the large, woolly things were over their trousers; why their boots had such high heels; what all the rope and “fixin’s” about their saddles were used for, as she peered cautiously from the upstairs window.
When Bess finally saw them returning she tried in vain to persuade Berenice to go with her to meet them, and now she decided that the “boys” should not be told until dinner time of the presence of the guest.
Henry slipped from his saddle when he saw Bess coming toward them, and lifting his big hat and holding the impatient horse with the other, said: “Let me be first to congratulate you. James—” but he was interrupted by James hurrying forward and greeting his sister with, “Congratulations, Sister; met Davis early this morning and he told me all about it.”
West had taken the reins of James’ horse and led him on toward the gate. The girl did not see his face pale under the dark skin, nor had she detected any emotion in his voice as he spoke. She felt just a little hurt at his unconcern, for she had thought that he might care.
The brother, with his arm placed affectionately about his sister, listened to her brief plans and heartily approved of them all.
“I am especially glad, Sister, because I have just made up my mind to return again to my law practice soon. My health seems to be fully restored, and while I enjoy this life, still I believe it to be to my greater interest to return East. And then, too, sometime—I hope—that is—perhaps Ber—” but he was abruptly interrupted by his sister uttering a sudden oh-h-h! and hurrying into the house.
Not long after Mrs. West called “dinner” from the dining-room. James and Henry arose from their respective easy chairs, laboriously and stiffly, and slowly sought their places at the table. Mrs. West also stood behind her chair waiting for the occupants of the other places. James thought he heard a suppressed giggle at the door, but did not face about. Henry had just noticed that two places were still vacant, and his slight curiosity was immediately relieved by two very tall, beautiful, smiling women advancing into the room.
James was about to request his tardy sister to hasten, when, by half turning, he came face to face with Berenice Morton. So completely was he surprised that he could not speak a word. She advanced and held up her hand, which he grasped in both his own as he whispered—“Bee!”
Bess laughingly pulled her aside, and leading her over to the other side of the table waited an instant for Mrs. West to introduce the stranger to her son. Berenice returned the firm pressure of the man’s hand as she smiled frankly into his deep eyes. The tempting viands were being shamefully ignored. One girl was too busy with her merry jests, while another could scarcely answer all the interrogatives which were being hurled at her by James.
Mrs. West wondered at her son’s loss of appetite and softly asked if he were ill. Sick? Yes! Heart-sick—miserably, utterly, hopelessly heart-sick. Ill with the pain that knows no healing—with a pain that knows no balm! With an enforced smile he assured his mother that he was only tired, and made an effort to join in the merry conversation.
“You two ‘boys’ must not plan a single thing for the next few weeks, except to ‘pack’ us girls about. Don’t you say so, too, ‘little Mother’?” laughed Bess, as they arose from the dinner table.
“That is, of course, if you can endure me so long, Henry; for you can plainly see by that,” pointing to the pair already departing through the doorway, “that I shall need dreadfully to have some one be a little kind to me, also,” she added, with sweetly pouting lips.
His impulse was to reply that he wished he might be kind always, but instead he remarked jocosely: “Perhaps—I may manage—Bess—to ‘endure’ you. I shall gladly help to entertain your friend in any way I may.”
“Come, Henry,” said Bess, after she had assisted in clearing the dining-table, “Berenice shall play and I will sing for you and for James.”
Song after song was sung—music, soft and tender, came from the gentle touch of the girl at the piano. Bright, glowing coals were gleaming in the grate where before were snapping brands. Pale moonlight filtered through the curtains and filled the room with soft, luminous light. Silence settled upon all, and each, unconscious of the others, was deeply absorbed in thought.
“The place for dreaming is in bed. Come, my children; it is late and growing cold,” said Mrs. West.
What glorious, happy days followed! September, with its soft, warm days, each filled with delightful rides and excursions, had given place to opalescent October, that wonderful month with its brilliant colorings, its ever-changing skies and glorious sunsets. Indian summer lingered on, day after day, and the fervent sunshine made it difficult to realize that soon flaky snow would be falling, covering each nude limb and rock with a winter blanket.
Bess Fletcher had managed during the interim to complete her wedding gown—simple white and severely plain. She had been unusually light-hearted and merry; still, several times when alone, as she thought how rapidly the day of her wedding was approaching, a spasm of pain had seized her, which fairly made her sick. It was a strange sensation which she could not define; and hoping that she would soon overcome it, did not mention it to Mrs. West nor to her friend.
Every day brought ardent letters, and sometimes Berenice wondered how Bess could wait so long before reading them.
But, most of all, Henry West’s mother marveled at her son’s changed manner. He entered heartily into all the fun, and even neglected a number of affairs about the ranch to accompany the other three upon some of their long rides. His laugh was frequent and his jesting talk unceasing. Often Bess gazed at him in amazement and tried to solve his strange, new mood. She felt like restraining him sometimes when his merriment seemed almost undignified, and beg of him to be his former self—quiet, calm, or even cold. Once she came upon him quite unawares in the library. He was seated at the table, his arms thrown out upon it, with his face buried in them. He did not hear her enter, and as she touched his arm he sprang suddenly from his seat, overturning the chair. For an instant his face held its expression of misery, then suddenly he burst into a loud, grating laugh. Bess was dumb with bewilderment at his peculiar action.
“Henry—what is the matter? I hate you when you are so unlike yourself! You have been positively horrid for more than a week! Do tell me if you are ill, or what I may do to make you behave!” she stormed at him, her eyes flashing with anger and bright spots burning upon each cheek. Suddenly West checked his laugh and passed his hand against his brow as if to stop its pain. He moistened his parched lips and drew deep, long breaths, while glowing, intense eyes pierced the girl’s very soul.
“Bess—Bess, I’m sorry. Must be I’m not well,” he hesitated, as if to catch his breath.
Becoming alarmed, Bess started for the door in search of Mrs. West.
“Stop, Bess—do not go—I need nothing. There is something—something—I have wanted to tell you—so long ago—something—” he sank into a chair unnerved. The girl walked softly to his side and placed her hand upon his own. He clutched it with a cruel grasp, then said: “Please go over there—I cannot talk—if you are so near me!”
“Go on, Henry,” requested the girl, after waiting what seemed an interminable length of time. Her heart was wrung with pity, and she could scarcely endure seeing his wretchedness.
“I—I am sorry,” he began slowly, as if with an effort to find words, “that you are to marry—that man. Bess—” rising abruptly and facing her, “I have grave reasons—believe me, for hating him as I do. They cannot be told without injury to—to—” but his sentence was interrupted by the sudden entrance of James and Berenice.
“Well! Here are the two pikers!” chided James. “We have been waiting ages for you!”
“Henry is not feeling well. Let’s stay at home today.”
James gave his sister a packet of letters which she scanned carelessly. At her brother’s request to hurry and see when Davis was coming, she opened his letter. It was very brief. All it contained was a request that their plans be changed and that she come to New York for the wedding, where he would await her. No explanations were given for his request. James saw that the news contained in the letter was displeasing, and taking it, at her request that he read, saw at a glance what was written.
“Well, Bess—shall you go?” and he briefly announced the contents of the letter to the others.
“James—please send a wire to Mr. Davis that my plans will remain unchanged!” and she swept haughtily from the room.
“Gee—I admire her spunk, don’t you, Bee?” said James to the girl, as she hastened after her friend.
One day, as Bess and Berenice were wandering rather aimlessly among the pines quite near the house, Berenice exclaimed: “Oh! what a novelty ’twould be to have the ceremony out-of-doors! Here—right here!”
Her suggestion had reference to a large, flat rock completely overrun with beautiful, creepy kinnikinick, and resting at the base of a large tamarack tree. The small firs made a dark-green background, and entwined about them hung clusters of clematis, now white with downy, smoky balls.
“Yes—it would be pretty. All right, we shall! Just think, dear, only one day more, and then—”
“Oh, my! Somehow the time has seemed too short,” remarked Bess, and her friend could not fail to hear the sadness which crept into her voice.
Dave Davis had written that his business had detained him much longer than he had thought, but that he should be able to reach HW ranch on the fourteenth. However, on the morrow came a messenger with a letter from Mr. Davis, stating that he could not possibly reach the ranch before the day of the wedding, and that nothing, nothing on earth should prevent his being there in ample time.
“I shall explain in detail as soon as I see you, dear,” the message ran, “and cannot express how the enforced delay has hurt me.”
“Dear me, Bess; I had hoped to know him intimately before ‘the day,’” said Berenice, truly regretful.
If Bess felt any displeasure or annoyance her manner nor her reply did not betray it. Her greater concern, seemingly, was whether or no Henry West would be home in time to attend the ceremony. Two days before he had received word from a distant part of the range that some trouble among the stock demanded his immediate attention. As he hastily bade her good-bye, he said he hoped to be back on the fifteenth, or at least in time to say good-bye before she and Berenice should take their departure.