THE FIRST VISIT OF DAVE DAVIS
“It seems ages since the boys left for the round-up,” remarked Bess to
Mrs. West, one afternoon, as they sat sewing. “When do you think they
will be home?”
Folding the soft, white cloth, which seemed to accentuate the
dark-skinned hands, Mrs. West paused a moment before answering.
“Um, well, let me see! They started about ten days ago. They ought to
be through on Sullivan Creek by this time, and then to Dayton Creek and
home. Perhaps in four days more.”
“Well, when they come, I think they will discover two things. One,
that I have wasted heaps of ammunition, and two—that I can ‘hit the
spot’ three times—almost,” laughingly replied Bess, as she sat near the
window, unconsciously lifting some faded American Beauty roses from a
vase. As if suddenly commanding her thoughts, she gave the flowers such
a vigorous thrust back into their receptacle that the water flew into
her face.
“Why girlie—what a way to treat your poor roses!” said Mrs. West.
Half ashamed and half defiantly Bess turned. “Why did not Mr. Davis
send the roses to you? You were the one who cared for him. He seems to
have forgotten that, and I’d like to remind him of it, too,” she said,
with a flash in her eye.
“Well, the opportunity is at hand; but please don’t,” replied Mrs.
West, for just then she saw Mr. Davis ride into the yard.
So completely was Bess surprised at the unexpected appearance of
the subject of her thoughts, that she strove in vain to cover her
embarrassment. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. Fragrant, waving, brown
hair half shielded her eyes, and for once she was glad of its unruly
fluffiness.
At first she thought only of flight, for somehow she did not feel that
she could as yet meet the man whose last words to her still rung in her
ears, and caused little qualms of fear in her heart. During the weeks
in which she had not seen him she tried in vain to banish him from her
mind; but the strange fascination which he held over her only seemed to
increase. And yet she knew her heart did not leap for joy at thought
of him, but rather its quickened beatings caused her an undesirable
pain,—one so strange, and new and foreign. Could it be that this was
love,—that great, mysterious thing which, whether we will or no, grips
our very souls like bands of steel, and wrings them most piteously. How
could she know? She had dreamed that with love came the sense of peace
and rest; the feeling of utter repose and satisfaction, the complete
knowledge of all that is good and true, the fulness of contentment, the
satisfaction of every heart-felt longing; and here, at the very first
appearance of the man who had so ardently confessed his devotion for
her, her one thought was to flee, to hide and not to see him. Instead,
she remained standing, perfectly quiet, and by the time she heard
his step in the hall and Mrs. West’s cheery salutation she was quite
mistress of herself.
With still a hesitancy in his walk, he came into the room. How his face
brightened and his step quickened at sight of Bess. Eagerly he stepped
forward and clasped her extended hand.
“I am glad to see you have improved greatly in so short a time,”
ventured Bess, in a low voice.
“Thanks; but to me the past weeks have seemed an eternity. Not a word,
not a sign from the little girl I left so reluctantly.”
Bess felt like calling to Mrs. West as she passed the doorway,—she
could not be alone with Mr. Davis.
“You came to see Mrs. West,” said Bess in a tentative way; “I’ll call
her!” But as she stepped forward towards the door, her face lifted and
lips parted ready to call, the man abruptly intervened, caught her to
him and smothered the sound upon her lips. Again and again he kissed
her till she had no breath to give voice to her anger.
“You—you—stop—how dare you frighten me so! You have no right to—to—”
but tears choked her voice and she could only gaze at him with flashing
eyes.
The man did not move nor offer any words. Slowly he put his hands in
his pockets and looked at her with eyes that burned into her very soul
and held her spell-bound. How handsome he looked,—so tall and large,
health again glowing in his face and form. For a full moment thus he
stood, immovable, immutable! Never for an instant did he lift his eyes
from the girl’s! Now her eyelids gave a brief quiver, her lips parted
in a soft sigh, and her hands fell listlessly by her side. Then he
spoke, in a voice so low that it was scarcely audible, so tender that
its caress seemed like music.
“Come here, dear!” Lifting one hand in an appealing gesture, he held
it poised for a moment and then let it rest gently on a fluffy brown
head, which moved slowly and irresolutely near to him. Lifting the
girl’s face so that he could look directly into the eyes, he said:
“Tell me—have I no right to love you, or to make you—_make_ you love in
return? Nothing seems good to me but you; you have my heart and soul
to save or destroy; you—little girl—are the keeper of my happiness, my
very existence. The miserable days without you have been unbearable;
the long nights more miserable still. I love you—do you understand
that—_love you_—I want you—and shall have you!” Again he grew fierce,
and held the girl so firmly that he felt her struggle for breath.
Slowly relaxing his arms and gently placing the girl before him he
continued: “Kiss me now, Bess, of your own free will, and that will
tell me that you love me.”
For a moment she stood silent, dumb. A spasmodic quiver shook her body
and trembling eyelids covered her eyes. Her hands went to her heart as
if trying to restore its beating, and suddenly she stepped back, flung
out her chin, and in a voice almost uncontrollable with emotion said,
“I’ll call—Mrs.—West—” and ran out of the room before her admirer could
prevent.
He stood a moment at the vacant doorway and then, with a sinister smile
showing the firm, white teeth set hard together, he said, half audibly:
“You—shall!”
Bess found Mrs. West and succeeded rather poorly in trying to be calm.
The dear, white-haired woman placed her arm lovingly about the girl and
led her gently back into the living-room.
Mr. Davis was standing with his back to the door as they entered,
toying carelessly with the faded roses.
“Your beautiful roses were greatly enjoyed and appreciated. We thank
you for them, Mr. Davis,” said Bess, in a voice which showed that she
had not yet recovered her composure.
She still clung to Mrs. West’s hand, as if she needed her assuring
clasp. Mrs. West could not refrain a smile at the extra stress which
the girl placed on the “we,” and added: “Yes, and you may judge by
their condition, Mr. Davis, how greatly they were prized. American
Beauties are not plentiful here, and their rarity as well as their
beauty makes them doubly dear.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. West, to have been so tardy in coming to see you. But
I found affairs in great confusion when I returned to the Agency. Will
you kindly tell me how much I am indebted to you?”
A look of anger and humiliation clouded the woman’s face. She did not
reply at once and was relieved from doing so by Bess, who drew herself
up to her full height and said with a bravado that astonished both her
hearers: “Mr. Davis, do not insult my little Mother by offering money
for her kindness towards you. Such indebtedness is only liquidated
by—by—gratitude, and by—roses,” she added, glancing at Mrs. West, and
pulled the shriveled petals off and dropped them carelessly on the rug.
“I see it is utterly useless to offer anything but my thanks, Mrs.
West.” Davis held out his hand to her and turning to the girl he added,
“And may I send more roses?”
As he took his departure a moment later, Mrs. West asked Bess if she
would ride as far as Polson with Mr. Davis and bring the mail. There
did not seem any plausible excuse to offer for not wishing to go, and
Davis gladly waited until she had donned her riding habit and a man had
brought Mauchacho from the stables.
What a delight to the eye was the tall, lithe form, with its becoming
green skirt and soft, fluffy waist. The sombrero was tied on securely
with her long, white, silky veil, that caressed the pink cheeks.
Long gauntlet gloves with fringed ends dangling, and a dainty quirt,
gave her an added touch of individuality. She spurned the proffered
assistance to mount, and had gained the saddle before it was fairly
given. The little dread which she had at first felt at riding the
three miles with Mr. Davis had left her, for somehow the indescribable
feeling she had, when he first came, had completely vanished, and
she knew that she was again complete mistress of herself—she was the
generalissimo!
The horses’ hoofs filled her ears with music as the two rode along,
almost without a word, and by the time they reached Polson’s she was
completely at ease and all the passion and fear of the past hour were,
for the time, at least, forgotten.
Mr. White, seeing their approach, brought the packet of letters out
to Bess, who eagerly examined them. At one, her face lighted up with
beautiful happiness, and she cried out: “Oh, goody—one at last from
Bee!”
After a few desultory remarks to Mr. White, Davis turned his horse to
go. Lifting his hat to Miss Fletcher, now buried in the pages of a
voluminous letter, he spoke so low that he doubted if she heard, she
gave a nod and smile to his, “Remember, the roses are only for you!”
Bess crowded the pages of the letter into its envelope, and thrusting
all the mail into her blouse she leaned forward with a quick command to
Mauchacho, who almost instantly caught the girl’s eagerness and sped
like the wind along the border of the lake for home.
Davis turned in the saddle, resting his hand on his horse’s back, to
watch with admiration the beautiful rider. The long, white veil was now
streaming far behind her like some dainty, fleecy cloud, trying to keep
pace with a fleeing nymph. There was no movement to her body, and she
seemed to be flying through space. Davis’ hand unconsciously restrained
his horse, who was now standing perfectly still. He watched the girl
ride out of sight behind a low hill, and when he again resumed his
journey he was filled with greater determination than ever to win her
at any cost.
Mrs. West hurried to the door as she saw Bess’ unusual haste, but her
anxiety was quickly dispelled as she caught sight of the girl’s happy
face. Slipping off her horse’s back, Bess left him with trailing reins,
and sprang quickly up the steps.
“Oh, little Mother,” she cried, as she grasped her hand and dragged her
to a seat on the steps beside her. Into her blouse she plunged her hand
and drew forth a letter which contained some startling news, indeed.
“See! here is a letter from Bee—Berenice, you know, and she writes—let
me see, where is it?” She wet her thumb and fumbled among the pages.
“Oh, here! ‘At last, dear Bess, I have gained father’s consent to come
to visit you, although he knows I will surely be eaten by bears or
buffalos or captured by the Indians.’”
Bess laughed as she gave Mrs. West’s hand a pressure of love and
assurance. “She thinks, or her father, rather, thinks we are still
among savages, doesn’t he?” Then she continued to read: “‘You see,
dearie, I am quite worn out with the care of sister—’ Oh! haven’t I
told you about it all, little Mother? Well, I will when I’ve finished
reading this; ‘with the care of sister, who is much better now, better
than she has been before in all these miserable years, although we have
given up hope that she will ever be her dear old self again.’”
Compassionate tears were swimming in Bess’ eyes so that with difficulty
she continued reading, “that the visit would not take place until early
in the autumn.”
“Really,” said Bess, “I can scarcely wait so long. Berenice and I have
been like sisters and were always roommates in school, before her
sister’s health demanded her continual presence at home. I have not
even seen her since then.”
She now carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and told Mrs.
West briefly the tragedy of the sister of her dearest friend, Berenice
Morton. It seems that about five years before this time, Miss Grace
Morton, who was attending school in Massachusetts, met a Harvard man
with whom she fell deeply in love. He was also enamored with the young
woman and became a frequent visitor. At last he persuaded Grace to
consent to a secret marriage, so that each might continue in school and
complete the year’s work before announcing what they had done.
At first he was more devoted as a husband than as a lover, but when it
became imperative to announce their secret marriage before the close
of the school year, she sent him an urgent request to come to her and
take her home to her parents. In vain she waited for him; days grew
into weeks, and still he did not come. Driven to desperation at last,
she went home to face her parents, to face the world, to bear her agony
alone. The shock was so great that the frail mother could not bear
it, and her death resulted a few weeks later. But the strong-hearted
father and tender young sister opened their arms to the poor, frail,
young woman, and with all their combined efforts sought to lessen her
burden. Each day she watched for some word or sign from the man who
had so cruelly deserted her, but as each day closed without the pain
and longing being satisfied, she gradually sank deeper and deeper in
despair. Her dear ones began to hope that with the advent of her child
she might regain her health of mind, but when the little one came no
flickering breath stirred its lips. In vain she opened her arms to
receive her treasure, and when they remained empty her heart broke and
her mind fled in search of the tiny wandering soul. During all of these
years the brokenhearted father and sister watched in vain for some sign
of recovery. Now Berenice had written that she was better! Could it be
possible that at length their prayers would be answered?
“You see, in all our letters to each other, I never felt like asking
Berenice more than she cared to write voluntarily; I do know, however,
that she met the man once while visiting her sister at school shortly
after the marriage.”
When Bess had finished telling Mrs. West the history of the tragedy,
the little mother’s heart was so wrung with tears and pity that she
could not speak, and abruptly entered the house.
“I wonder,” said Mrs. West, after she had again found her voice, “what
on earth could have prompted any man to do such a cowardly, dastardly
act! I believe if I were placed in a similar position with Mr. Morton
and should ever discover the scoundrel, I would—kill him!” she said,
half to herself and half to the girl, who had followed her into the
living-room, and who was now gazing with wide, astonished eyes at the
excited woman. For the first time since Bess had come to the _HW_ ranch
had she seen the latent savagery aroused. How grand and imposing the
woman looked, standing straight and rigid, her black eyes emitting
flashes of fire! One hand was thrust into the white tresses, while
the other, half upraised and clenched, seemed to grasp an imaginary
weapon! She truly looked as if she meant what she said, and as if she
could do what she meant. Presently she walked over to an open window,
as if she needed the fresh air which gently swayed the curtains. When
she had grown quite calm again she turned to Bess, awed at the woman’s
magnificent rage.
“My dear, I am glad you are here with me, and quite safe from those
vultures who swoop down upon any woman as legitimate prey, simply for
the gratification of a momentary passion. They do not hesitate to match
their strength against the weak, nor to use every wile, hidden by
suavity of manner and equivocal promises, to accomplish their purpose.
I do not say all are like this, but the few are ever ready, waiting.”
The girl’s brown eyes filled with a strange light, as if they did not
comprehend the subtle significance of the words, or perhaps saw for the
first time the full significance of what, heretofore, had seemed like a
faint, quavering intuition. Her personal experience with men had been
so very limited, and withal so pleasant, that she had felt a sort of
brotherly interest in those whom she knew. But somehow, now, there was
creeping into her soul an indescribable timidity or fear, and for what
she could scarcely define. Into her mind flashed remnants of incidents
she had heard of brokenhearted girls, and the tragedy of her friend’s
sister stood out clear and ominous! With a start she recalled the day
when she and Henry West stood near his sister Helen’s grave, and the
half incoherent words again came into her mind and assumed a new and
terrible meaning. Yet, here stood the unsuspecting mother, now grown
sweet and calm once more; surely, Bess’ surmises must be wrong, for
how could any mother have such a secret knowledge and still be able to
smile—or even to live?
“No,” Bess thought, “I must not even think such a thing of that dear,
sweet, sleeping stranger.”
At length Mrs. West came over to Bess, and folding her in her arms
stroked the soft tresses as if she were her own daughter, still tiny,
still sweet, still living!
“I fear that I have alarmed you, dear, but somehow those things always
make me lose control of myself, and I feel like the wild creatures who
are ever guarding their young against the onslaughts of danger.”
Bess permitted herself to be held in the protecting embrace for several
moments, then suddenly releasing herself, she sprang to the center
of the room, and dramatically drawing herself up to her full height,
throwing back her head and clenching her hands, she said, with emotion
quavering in her voice: “Look—tell me—shall I always be able to protect
myself? Look!”
Mrs. West was held entranced for a moment by the beautiful girl.
Health glowed in her eye and reddened her lips and cheeks; strength of
character was stamped in every feature; the strong will-power showed in
the rigid jaw and tense nostrils.
“Yes—I know you will always have the courage, and God will give you
strength.”