THE MIRACLE OF WOMANHOOD
Dave Davis, the Indian agent, had sent word that he wished to be
removed to his quarters at Arlee as soon now as possible. Today, the
day after Bess’ return from her interesting visit to St. Ignatius
Mission, he was expecting one of his policemen to come for him. His
foot was far from strong, but he had managed since Sunday to hobble
about with one crutch and a cane. The past two days had been tedious
and long, and he had sorely missed the cheery presence of the girl.
How he should miss her singing and her reading! He secretly wished he
had further excuse to remain near her; yet, on the other hand, it was
distasteful to him to be brought in contact with West. Thus far they
had seen little of each other. Today at luncheon would be their first
meal together. Each dreaded the meeting, yet Davis could not excuse
himself, and if Henry West was at home, he was too much of a gentleman
to allow a guest to note any displeasure.
Davis slowly and painfully found his way downstairs and into the
living-room, in quest of Mrs. West, to apprise her of his expectant
departure some time during the day, and to offer, if he might, some
pecuniary settlement for all the comforts and attentions which he had
received during his enforced stay at the _HW_ Ranch.
No one seemed to be about, but presently he heard, coming from another
part of the house, Bess’ melodious voice. Wafted to him came the
words, “And sometimes in the twilight gloom apart—” He passed through
the dining-room and paused before the half-open door of the kitchen.
“The tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart,” continued the girl,
all unconscious of the alert ear at the door-casing.
“From my fond lips the eager answers fall—thinking—”
A pause, as Bess stopped to glance at a cookbook which lay on a table
just before her, and into her song was woven, “(‘three eggs well
beaten’) thinking I hear thee call.”
Then she closed her lips and softly hummed the air as she was
vigorously beating a cream mixture in a huge yellow bowl.
The beautiful picture which she made held the eaves-dropper entranced,
and he scarcely breathed lest his presence be discovered and the
charming vision be gone.
Bess had on an immense blue and white gingham apron, the sleeves
rolled high up above her dimpled elbows, exposing the creamy white of
the fore-arm. A line of tan about the wrist showed that she had been
thoughtless about exposing her hands to the sun and wind. A big floppy
bow of black ribbon unsuccessfully restrained the soft knot of hair on
her neck, and her “forelock,” as she had denominated it, lay almost
directly on her nose, all snowy white. A little unconscious puff at
the obstruction sent a tiny white cloud of flour into the air, which
elicited an audible smile from the figure at the doorway. Bess quickly
turned and faced the visitor.
“Oh! Mr. Davis, aren’t you dreadful to startle one so! The lady of the
house is out,” she said with a soft Irish twang to the words, “and ’tis
against the rules an’ regulations of this household to intertain any
company in the kitchen.” She artfully caught hold of either side of her
apron and made a sweeping courtesy to him.
“Oh, please let me come in, little girl; I’m lonesome; I haven’t seen
you for three days, and now you would drive me away.”
Davis came up to the opposite side of the table, and presented such a
pathetic, pleading spectacle that Bess relented and permitted him to be
seated. Cautiously he sank into a chair and tenderly rested his lame
foot across the crutch. Bess again took up the big spoon and pounded
away vigorously at the contents in the yellow bowl, trying to cover her
confusion.
It is trying, at best, for even an expert in the culinary art, to be
closely watched while engrossed in the intricacies of mixing a cake;
but how much more so, when a girl has not “tried her luck” for months,
and besides, when the table, the floor, the apron, her face, and even
her hair, bear strong circumstantial evidence that the flour-sifter
had leaked profusely. Furthermore, one dismal failure was spread out
in full, accusing view on the table before her. Her cheeks burned with
brilliant color, and her brown eyes flashed half nervously and half
defiantly as she wielded the spoon.
“You see,” began Bess, in an explanatory voice, “Mrs. West was called
to see Mrs. White, who is quite ill at Polson, and she gave me
full sway in the kitchen for today. Mary, the Indian woman, is on a
protracted visit to some of her relatives, over on Dayton Creek, so
I am to get the meals. It’s great fun to come into the kitchen and
cook ‘just for today,’ but I do not think I should care to assume the
responsibility and the thinkability of twenty-one squares a week. I
don’t wonder that women grow desperately tired of unceasingly hungry
people to keep satisfied.”
On chatted the girl to the enthralled listener, and her composure
returned.
“Were you trying to put your head in the flour barrel?” laughingly
inquired Davis, as he noted the white, puffy locks.
“No,” said Bess, assuming a dramatic attitude. She quoted,
‘My hair is grey, though not with years,
Nor grew it white in a single night,
As men’s have grown from sudden—’
“Oh, say,” she cried, abruptly, “don’t you love Lord Byron’s poems!
_The Prisoner of Chillon_, _Childe Harold_, _Mazeppa_—only that’s so
cruel!
“You see this,” she changed the subject. “This which ought to be a
delectation,” pointing with scornful gesture at the remnant of the
burned and flattened cake before her on the table; and then, giving
her latest creation another whack or two before putting it into the
baking-tin, “but it is only an abstraction for which Lord Byron is to
blame. I had that book of his poems open, so that I might be committing
some of the lines while occupied in stirring the batter, and while I
was repeating,—‘There were seven pillars of Gothic mold—seven pillars
of’—why, you see, I put seven teaspoonsful of yeast powder into the
stuff and never noticed it until I had opened the oven, and the frothy,
foamy mass went sizz-z-z—and hit bottom.”
Davis became convulsed at her narrative and her manner of relating it.
“Now, sir; please do not move nor breathe for forty minutes, and I will
show you a triumph,” commanded Bess, as she picked up the utensils
which she had used in her work.
“If I may speak, ever so carefully,” said Davis, “I’d like to tell you
a little experience I had with a cake, or rather, an experience of an
old bachelor friend of mine, over east of the range.”
“Do go on! I’m sure it is interesting!”
“It was this way: Bill had been living all alone on his sheep ranch
over there, and like many western men who live lonely lives, was
rather out-spoken and uncouth, altho’ true as steel. He grew tired
of just bacon and corn-dodgers for grub, so he decided he’d try his
luck at making a cake. I happened to be riding the range that day and
went out of my way to go over and say ‘How’ to Bill. As I neared the
cabin a suspicious odor greeted my nostrils simultaneously with Bill’s
appearance at the door. He had nearly as much flour over him as you
have now,” added Davis, facetiously.
Bess glanced at her tell-tale apron and folded it across her lap as she
sat on a low stool interested in the cake tale.
“‘Hello, Bill,’ I called, ‘what’s up? Smells to me as if you had a
cook! Been getting married and didn’t send me a card?’ I said to him,
as if in earnest. ‘Aw hell, no, Dave, this haint no fit place for a
woman, even if I could find one who would have such an onnery cuss as
I am,’ he answered. ‘Better unsaddle and stop for grub; got some swell
dope ’bout ready. Come in pretty easy though ’er she’ll fall.’
“Just as I crossed the threshold he had taken a cautious peep into
the tiny oven. As he lifted his red face a radiant and expectant
smile wreathed his seamy mug, and mouth-juice trickled down either
side of his chin, anticipating the delight to be. Presently he took
me by the arm, lead me cautiously over to the stove and opened the
oven to let me see what it contained. ‘A cake, by thunder!’ he said.
‘Ain’t she a peach, Davy, old boy! Look at her foam! She is sure great
stuff—and—but—Gee! She’s—what’s it doing—it’s—’ and just then there was
a sizz-z-z—and ‘she struck bottom.’ Bill’s face fell with the cake and
he banged the door with a vengeance. For a moment he stood with his
hands thrust into his pockets, and then burst out:—‘Bake—damn ye—we’ll
eat you anyhow!’ ‘What seems to be the trouble with it, Bill?’ I asked
as consolingly as I could without roaring. ‘She ought to be good—I
looked in the receipt book, and the first thing I read about cakes it
said—the yelks of seven aigs—Sheep don’t lay no aigs, so I shut the
book and fixed ’er up to suit myself. I put in plenty of sugar and
baking-powder and plenty of corn-meal to give ’er body. I didn’t have
no vanilly or lemon flavor, so I just put in a squirt of Perry Davis’
Pain Killer, and I guess that’s what knocked her out.’”
“Did you eat it?” asked Bess.
“N—no; we tried to scoop out the middle, but even Bill declined and
said he guessed he’d flop her over and bake her again tomorrow.”
“Well, this time mine seems to be all right,” remarked Bess, as she
peered into the oven.
What a chat the two were having, both enjoying it greatly.
“I came in here trying to find Mrs. West. I am going away this
afternoon and am anxious to make a settlement with her before leaving.”
“This afternoon—you are going—away,” asked the girl in a tone more
solicitous than she realized. Davis slowly rose from his chair and
hobbled near Bess, standing with her hands clasped loosely behind her.
“Yes—do you care? Tell me you care. Tell me you’ll miss me, little
girl,” he said, with a sudden outburst of passion, as he clasped both
the girl’s hands in his own strong hold. He bent his head low. The
fragrance from her hair intoxicated him and a great desire seized him
to clasp her in his arms.
Bess, frightened at his unexpected and new attitude toward her, for a
moment could not move. She felt his breath against her hair, and heard
his heart as it beat loudly. She felt afraid to move lest she hurt
his foot, and now the blood was throbbing in her throat painfully. The
thought flashed through her mind that they were alone in the big house,
and even could she have cried out for some one to come, she felt that
it would be an insult to the man near her. What had she to fear?
“Oh, please! Mr. Davis, you hurt my hands. Let me go, you must,”
she said emphatically, as she wrestled her hands free and turned
directly about. With a bewildered exclamation she put her hand to her
cheek, and stared with wrinkled brow at the man who was standing so
near her. For the first time in her young life she read in a man’s
face the unspoken words of passion and love. In the moment she stood
motionless the veil was lifted from her virgin soul, and the miracle
of womanhood was wrought! Into that brief space crowded undreamed
dreams; new and strange insights, wonderful knowledge! She felt herself
grow old, as all these strange sensations crowded themselves into her
unsophisticated mind. A look of mingled dismay, unintelligibility and
terror crept into the girl’s face, as she was held spell-bound by the
magnetic voice of the man, and by deep glowing eyes that held her
fascinated against her will.
He drew nearer and nearer and breathed a torrent of passionate love
into her ears. His face nearly touched hers, and she was wholly unable
to move. The man knew that he was the first one to teach her of passion
and he felt an exultant pride of possession, already.
“Don’t be frightened, little one,” he said to her in the softest, most
endearing tone he could master. “Cannot you understand how wonderful it
is to love and to be loved? Let me teach you all it means, dear. Let
me tell you that you are essential now to my happiness and to my very
existence. You all unconsciously have made me love you—love you, till I
cannot breathe without you. Tell me, that you do love me. Tell me—tell
me,” and his voice sank to an almost inaudible, yet imperative whisper.
“I—oh! Please, Mr. Davis—I—do—not even know you. Oh—do—not—please do
not talk so to me!” her husky voice trembled, so choked with emotion
that he could scarcely understand what she said.
He knew it would be sheer temerity to press his suit further for the
present, so he stroked her hair with a soft caress, and said: “Never
mind now, dear; think of all I have said, and when I come again you
will understand. Good-bye now, for I shall not see you again before
leaving,” and giving her hair another gentle touch, he adjusted his
crutch and left the room.
Bess’ hands fell at her sides. Amazed, her eyes followed the man as he
passed through the doorway. All her senses seemed to have been dulled
by the recent avowal still ringing in her ears. She was lost to her
surroundings, and stood still and silent.
“What’s burning, Bess?” called Henry West, as he stopped at the outside
door of the kitchen, while passing. Bess was brought to earth with such
a thud that she clutched at her heart to stop its pounding. Quickly she
sprang to the oven and succeeded in partially concealing her confusion
by peering into it just as West stepped into the room.
“Rather hot work, cooking, isn’t it?” he ventured, unsuspectingly, as
the girl lifted her scarlet face to him.
“Dear me—it is nearly burned! I forgot—everything!” she said
disconnectedly as she snatched the cake from the stove and placed it on
the table.
“Oh! it’s hot!” she exclaimed, as she stuck her finger into her mouth;
then looking at it she saw a large, white blister swelling upon the
tender skin.
West saw at once that she had burned her hand and hastily applied some
soda to relieve the pain. With tender care he wrapped it up, and when
the smarting had ceased, told Bess he would help her to get the meal.
She was still ill at ease, and the incident of a few moments ago kept
asserting itself in little spasms that would make her catch her breath.
In her ears kept ringing the echo of Davis’ burning words, and she
longed to flee to her room, to be alone, to think—to think—to cry. She
surely would cry—she felt tears coming.
“Oh, Henry—I can’t stay—I want to go to—my—,” but by this time the
floodgates of pent-up feelings had opened wide, and with tears
streaming down her cheeks she fled to the silence and comfort of her
own dear room.
“Poor little girl; she is nervous trying to do so much this morning,”
soliloquized Henry, drawing off his coat and tying on a large apron.
He then began to make preparations for the noon-day meal.
Just then, up the road leading to the house, drove one of the Indian
police with a comfortable conveyance. By the time he could reach the
porch, Davis, who had been watching the arrival, was already there
dressed to go away.
“May I be of any service,” asked Henry West, with civility.
“Thank you. The man will fetch down my things.”
West walked out to hold the horses while the minor preparations were
going on, and helped Davis to a comfortable position in the rig.
“I am sorry not to have seen your mother before leaving. Please tell
her I shall be over here again, as soon as possible, to—to—remunerate
her for all the inconvenience to which I have placed her,” said Davis;
and then, without further addressing West, ordered the man to start.
West stood for several moments watching the departure; the only emotion
which he betrayed being a convulsive closing of his hands and eyes.