Everything was ready for the long drive shortly after midnight. As Bess stepped out-of-doors and beheld the glorious moonlight making everything as bright as gold, she wished she were being tucked snugly into the seat beside her friend, that she might enjoy the drive over the hard, smooth road.
The good-byes had all been said, but Bess climbed up beside Berenice Morton to give her one more farewell kiss, then ran quickly into the house. She flung herself upon the couch and burst into passionate, burning tears, the first which had come to release the tension upon the overwrought nerves.
Mrs. West sat quietly beside her, soothing her, gently touching her brow and hands. At length the quiet, regular respirations told her that Bess had fallen asleep. She softly folded a blanket about the girl; then, replenishing the fire in the grate, sat down to watch and wait until she should awaken. Once, when she could not hear a breath nor see the slight movement of the blanket, she hastily touched the unconscious form. The eyes opened for a moment, then, with a smile upon her lips Bess immediately relapsed into sleep. All night the woman watched, heedless of the chill creeping upon her, disregardful of her own great weariness. The dawn crept in at the window and peered into her white, careworn face, pointing a warning finger; then lifted it toward the mountain-tops and behold ’twas morning!
With stiffened limbs Mrs. West arose, and leaving a tender kiss upon the girl’s hand, turned to leave the room. With the flash of a sun-beam shining into her eyes, Bess sprang to her feet just as Mrs. West reached the door.
“Little Mother! Is it late? Why! I have not been in bed!” she exclaimed with bewilderment, as she saw that she was still dressed.
“Do not hurry, dear. I—I just came in to make a fire, and to—to—see—if—you were—warm,” came with effort, as the woman held onto the door for support. Bess ran quickly to her.
“Mother—Mother, what is it? See! you are cold,—your hands, your face! You have been here with me all night? Oh! why—why?” cried Bess, half beside herself. She almost carried Mrs. West across the hall into her room. Quickly she disrobed the shaking form and placed it in bed. She worked with all her strength, now hurrying with hot water, now rubbing and chafing the rigid limbs. For hours she labored unceasingly, but no relief came to the stricken woman. Mrs. White had been summoned, and together they worked, doing everything within their power and knowledge to relieve the sufferer.
A physician could not reach the ranch before the next day, and Bess feared that he might then be too late. Oh, if Henry had only sent one of the men to make the drive to Selish instead of insisting upon going himself, she thought, as she went to the door at frequent intervals to see if he were coming.
When he came and saw how ill his mother was, dire forebodings filled his mind. She did not know him as he sat by her side and spoke her name, but kept calling “Helen.” Bess would respond to the call and at once the woman would be pacified.
For days Henry West and Bess attended the sick woman, relieving each other, that a few hours’ sleep might be snatched. Once when she called her son’s name Henry answered eagerly, “I’m near, Mother dear! Don’t you know me?”
With great effort she lifted her pale, wan hand and gently touched his cheek with her fingers. Tears of joy that she knew him rushed to his eyes, but in a moment more she was again calling hopelessly for her son to come.
Pneumonia, the physician had named the illness. He came often by boat from Kalispell and remained for several hours each time. Bess would not permit her place to be supplanted by a nurse so long as the physician approved of her work. In fact, he told Henry West, that no one could do better nor more than Miss Fletcher. Yet, when he saw that the girl was growing thin and pale, tired from the hard work of nursing, and worn because of the mental strain, he tried to force her to desist lest she should become ill. With a look of entreaty in her brown eyes and a determined smile upon her firm lips she said that no one could attend a Mother like a daughter.
When the first snow came late one November day, filling all the land with purity, crowning every rock with softness, clothing each outstretched limb on pine and fir with a garment of whitest down, there also came a change in the sick-room. Mrs. West had lain in a profound slumber for several hours, and when she awoke her mind was cleared of the mist. She was too weak to move and very faintly came the words, “Henry—Bess,” as her eyes moved to the two silent watchers on either side of the bed. Oh, the joyous looks of understanding which these two exchanged, to know that after all, their care and watching and waiting had been rewarded!
Weeks followed. Mrs. West was propped up against her pillow for a short time on Christmas day, when the Yuletide was marked with decorations of beautiful Oregon grape and long sprays of kinnikinick which Bess had dug from beneath the snow and placed artistically in the sick-room. Bess sang, at her request, one of her beautiful songs. Tokens of remembrance came from James and Berenice Morton, which filled the girl with sadness and loneliness. Toward evening, as she went out to refresh herself with a short ride, she discovered a beautiful, new saddle and bridle upon her horse.
When at last the long, anxious winter gave place to promising springtime, Mrs. West slowly convalesced from her tedious illness. May came with calling birds, the tender greens, the soft air at noon-day, bringing strength to her each day. Bess, too, was growing rosy cheeked and strong from her long rides in the fresh, pure air. She seemed to be as happy and vivacious as when she had come to HW Ranch a year before. The ordeal of Mrs. West’s illness had crowded out her own painful experience and had made her sweeter, stronger, better than she ever had been before. When bitter moments of remembrance occurred to her she fought out her misery alone, and no other eyes ever saw her pain or knew that the sting was not wholly gone. Once James had written her that he had seen Dave Davis—or rather Dayton Davies—in New York; that at first he had not recognized him so changed and dissolute was his appearance.
Now that Mrs. West was fully recovered, Bess had written to her brother that she would soon rejoin him in New York. She had wished first to spend a few days in witnessing the round-up of horses in June. Bess had been anxious to attend one of the round-ups, and now she decided to avail herself of the opportunity of witnessing some of the marvelous exhibitions of which she had heard so much.