BESS LEARNS THE REAL CAUSE OF THE ACCIDENT
The girl had begun to tidy up the living-room and the pretty
library, with its shelves of choice books, when Mrs. West came in to
remonstrate. “There are plenty of hands to do those tasks, Miss Bess,”
she said, as she held the girl’s hands in her own. “You just go out and
enjoy yourself, dear. It is such a pretty day that it is a pity to stay
indoors.”
“Oh, please let me help you, Mrs. West,” pleaded Bess, “for I do
enjoy working; and then, too, with your increased family you will
be overtaxed.” The girl spoke with such earnestness that Mrs. West
relented, thinking perhaps Bess would feel more at home if she
assumed some little responsibilities. “You see,” Bess explained, “my
father insisted upon the nuns at the convent teaching me all kinds of
housework and serving, and it has been a great source of comfort to me
to feel that I need not be dependent upon anyone to do these tasks for
me.”
Mrs. West’s eyes followed the girl as she continued her task quietly
and quickly, all the while busily talking.
“You’ll be surprised, little Mother, when I tell you that I have made
nearly all of my own clothes. You’ll let me help you sew, too, won’t
you? It must be a great problem for you to find anyone here, is it not?”
The deft fingers were putting little touches here and there, now
arranging a vase of flowers or moving a picture, and Mrs. West noted
with pleasure how soon the room bore evidence of her artistic taste.
As the days succeeded each other and the girl grew more and more into
the home life of the ranch, she became a help and consolation to Mrs.
West, in a thousand different ways. She relieved her of many little
duties and assumed so willingly and competently the many cares that ere
long Mrs. West began wondering how she had ever been able to get along
without Bess, or how she had ever had the time or strength to look
after the house alone. She now found time to rest and to read. She even
took up her practice again, and many were the delightful hours which
she and Bess spent together with their music. The lonely place in her
heart was being filled by the presence of this sweet, lovable girl, and
her tender, motherly love went out to Bess, as if the girl were indeed
her own daughter.
The visitor was considerate of everyone. She was always seeing some
kind thing to do or gentle word to say, and everyone, including the old
Indians, who frequently came to the ranch, was treated with respect and
given a kindly smile. Before the autumn had come her figure, riding on
Mauchacho, sometimes with James or Henry West, or often alone, grew
so familiar that the Indians named her “Bright Eyes,” because of the
happy face and beautiful eyes.
Those first few weeks at the ranch were full of pleasure and delight
for Bess. She took long rides of exploration over the vast acres, and
each time, upon her return to the house, told of the wonderful things
which she had discovered.
“There is the dearest spot up along the Lake shore,” she told Mrs. West
one afternoon as she and Mauchacho came up to the porch, returning
from one of their pleasant rides. “It is up on a little knoll, with
beautiful pine trees that looked as if they had been freshly scrubbed
this very day; and such very comfortable rocks and logs lying about.
I am going to take my crayons and sketch there some day. Such a
magnificent view of the vast blue lake, the mountains all around and
Wild Horse Island in the distance.”
Then, as if she felt half guilty for leaving, she inquired how Mr.
Davis seemed. “Really, I should not have left you to take care of him
so long alone. I’ll be in the house in a moment, little Mother, and
relieve you.”
As none of the men were about Bess unsaddled her horse and turned him
loose to bury his nose in the soft, green grass of the pasture. She
stood a moment watching Mauchacho as he sniffed to find a good place to
roll. “Over Mauchacho, over again, two hundred! three hundred dollars;
good, but we won’t sell you for a thousand, will we, you beauty?” And
with her hat and gloves she ran into the house and hurriedly dressed to
take charge of the sick man.
Davis had proved a quiet patient during his confinement and was now
sitting up most of the day and soon would be able to be removed to his
quarters at the agency. In his secret heart he knew that he was in no
hurry to go; perhaps, had he made an effort, he could have gone some
days ago. But he could not tear himself away from the girl who had
helped to alleviate his suffering, and whose sweet voice had charmed
him when she read during the long, tedious hours, and thrilled him
while she sang, he lying quietly and watching her face, songs that were
simple and sweet and full of deepest melody. But she always appeared
abstracted; her brown eyes did not see the things about her, but gazed
upon unknown visions which only her heart saw. Sometimes the brightest
smiles played upon her lips and lighted up her face with joy; again,
tear-drops hung on her long lashes, and fell unheeded upon her hands.
If he could only divine the thoughts which caused her emotion! He
could not, but was entranced and deeply moved. Was he growing to love
this girl, he asked himself a dozen times a day. No, surely he was
not. But, even if he were, did he dare? Could he, Dave Davis, make
this beautiful, unsuspecting and pure child love him? Always, he would
banish the thought, for he still possessed a conscience, and could not
think of her in this relation without a twinge.
Today as she came into the sick-room, all rosy and fresh after her
ride, he looked at her with admiration. She had never looked half so
charming to him before; the simple white dress made her girlish, and
the bunch of yellow blossoms thrust into the loose knot of brown hair,
just behind her ear, gave her a saucy air. She was brushing the hair
from her brow as she approached the chair in which he was sitting.
“I envy you your ride and the fresh air, Miss Fletcher. It seems ages
since I felt my horse under me. I never shall forgive him for stepping
in a hole that day. Guess if I had not been so intent watching the girl
in the distance,” he spoke as to himself, “trying to assure myself it
was Miss Fletcher, he would not have thrown me.”
“Oh, Mr. Davis! I hope I was not even the unconscious cause of your
accident,” Bess replied anxiously. “Are girls such a rare sight on the
reservation that even horses run away when they see them?” she added,
half jokingly.
“Well—girls like you are, yes,” he replied, meaningly, but the girl
would not understand.
“When I am well and able to ride, will you let me show you some of the
interesting places on the reserve? We’ll visit the Mission, with its
school of Indians, and the church.”
“Oh, I should be happy to go. Thank you, Mr. Davis; but I fear I cannot
wait, for Henry and James have planned to go with me to the Mission
next Sunday, and we expect to be there for mass. I can scarcely wait,
and know the trip will be full of interest.”
“Henry West seems to take quite a good deal of your time,” he said
pettishly, and Bess wrinkled her brow, amused at his displeasure.
“Let me finish the book,” suggested Bess, but the man said he was tired
and would prefer to rest. She regretted his petulant mood, and quietly
left the room.