“MON DESIR” AND THE BOX OF ROSES
“It does seem so good to be home again where it is cool and clean and
cozy,” said Bess, as she flung herself into an easy porch chair the
morning of their return from the County-seat. She scanned with interest
the tall, magnificent pines and firs which bordered the lake, as if
she had been away from them months instead of days. A half-drawn glove
was held in her clasp, as she lifted her hands to her eyes better to
discern some horsemen whom she saw in the distance.
“Little Mother,” she cried, “come quickly; I believe those are the boys
returning!”
Mrs. West came hurrying out with a pair of field glasses, and soon the
two were hastening out of the gate and down the road to see “the boys.”
For a moment they were out of sight behind the low hill, then suddenly,
a single horseman came into sight, riding swiftly toward them. In a
moment more Henry West sprang to the ground and held both his mother’s
hands as he pressed his tanned and roughened cheek against hers.
Turning to Bess with the gladness of return shining in his eyes and
ringing from his voice, he said, “Oh, it seems so good to be home
again! We had a long, hard siege of it this trip. But where are you
going?” as he noticed she still wore her hat.
Bess had suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. She could not reply.
His mother explained that they had just returned from Kalispell and
that she was glad they were at home when he arrived. Just then James
Fletcher with several of the cowboys came riding up.
“Well, little sister, are you so glad to see us that you can’t control
your laughing?” said James, jumping from his horse and giving Bess such
a hearty squeeze that she gasped for breath.
“Really, Henry, if you could see how funny you look with that—that
little goatee, I guess you call it!”
Henry gave the whiskers a stroke or two, and replied in a joking manner
entirely foreign to himself, “You see, ‘noblesse oblige’. I was chosen
foreman of the round-up, and so grew this to give me dignity.”
“Yes, Henry could not have carried on the round-up had not the boys
been awed by the whiskers,” added James, looking at Henry, and they
both laughed as numerous jokes recurred to them.
“To say the least, they are awful, don’t you think so, little Mother?
Please boys, go hurry and shave and look like yourselves again.”
The long, delightful afternoon was spent in lounging in the hammock
or resting in the quiet, cool rooms. Bess sang for the boys and they
listened, as if they had been isolated for months. Presently James
fell asleep, and Henry moved nearer to the piano where he could watch
the girl’s face as she sang. Song after song fell in soft cadences from
her lips and held the man entranced. How dear she looked in the simple
white dress, with some wild rose-buds in the knot of hair at her neck.
Tiny, stray locks half hid her eyes and made them a soft, deep brown.
Now she began the low, indecisive minor of Nevins’ ‘_Mon Desir_,’ and
as her rich, melodious voice framed the words, an involuntary sigh
escaped the man who stood so near her. Stretching out his hand he
placed it abruptly over hers on the piano, and with a trembling voice
and eyes brilliant with emotion asked Bess to cease.
“Why, Henry—your favorite song,” said Bess, astonished.
“Not today—I can’t—hear—it—today.” He turned abruptly and quitted the
room.
James stirred and stretched his arms with a yawn, saying, “Didn’t I
just hear you sing ‘My Desire’, sister? Go on, finish it!”
But Bess, rising from the seat, closed the music, gently and tenderly,
as if she were concealing some sacred thing.
“Not today; I could not sing it again—today.” Going through the open
door she sought the splashing spring near the house, where she sat
dreaming and wondering—wondering at the strange moods of Henry West.
The shadows of the trees were lengthening perceptibly, and a tiny chill
in the air warned her that it must be nearly dinner time. She stooped
to bathe her face in the clear, cold stream, where it flowed through
the hewn trough, and at once felt refreshed, bright and alert. By
the time she reached the house she was unconsciously singing, and as
the words—“Give me my desire” arose to her lips she felt rather than
heard a deep sigh which came from behind the swaying curtains of the
living-room. As she entered through the open door, she saw Henry West,
reclining in a large chair, his hands clasped together above his head,
in a restful attitude. All traces of the round-up were gone, save the
deep brown of the sunburn on his face, which made him look almost as
dark as a full blooded Indian, and contrasted strangely with the soft,
white, silk shirt.
As Bess came near with a sweet smile lighting up her face, she asked,
half coaxingly, “I wonder if you and James are too tired, or have
ridden too much during the past three weeks, to go with me for a ride
after dinner? We can go after the mail, and then cross on the ferry and
ride over to the falls. They must be magnificent now that the water is
so high. I could hear them roar as we came through Polson this morning.
Mauchacho has not had his saddle on for days.”
She had not noticed until now how really tired and worn out the man
looked. Three weeks of constant riding is a hard task, even for those
who, one might say, live in the saddle. To have charge of the round-up;
to manage successfully and skilfully the driving and separating of
thousands of cattle and the correct branding of the calves; to see that
each man performs his especial duty and his share and is not behind
some protecting hill sitting on the ground, digging his spurs into the
ground, watching his horse eat grass while the other “boys” are driving
the cattle to the branding corrals; to do all these and many more
duties dependent upon him, completely used up all of West’s reserve
force.
“There—there—never mind—don’t say ‘yes’; really, I am selfish to
forget how tired you both must be, indeed,” continued Bess anxiously,
as West, with effort, lowered his arms and drew himself together. She
took one of the rose-buds from her hair and carelessly fastened it in a
button-hole of his shirt. The faint perfume arose to his nostrils, and
for a moment made him quiver, as if he were cold. He gripped the arms
of the chair, that his hands might not, against his will, clasp the
girl and draw her down to him and hold her there forever. “Give me my
desire, and then let me die,” the words of the sad, tragic song leaped
to his mind.
“Really, Bess,” he explained, “James is quite worn out. He stood the
round-up splendidly, and although I tried to give him easy shifts he
insisted upon doing his share. I will go with you for a ride, and am
not tired.”
“No, Henry, we will just stay at home, and you and James shall tell me
all about the experiences of the past few weeks.”
As they went into the dining-room a large box was at Bess’ place at
the table. Her face and neck dyed crimson as she caught sight of it,
for well she knew what it contained and who was the sender. She would
have placed it aside, but James and Mrs. West coaxingly demanded to
see the contents. Her trembling fingers could scarcely untie the cord.
Henry, who sat beside her, offered his assistance, and as she removed
the cover and green, waxen paper and lifted the large, white roses to
her face, a card fell at Henry’s plate.
“Oh! a card too! Let’s see, Henry, who it is that sent the
conservatory,” cried James, who never missed an opportunity to tease
his sister. But Henry, without even glancing at the card, placed it
among the flowers which Bess held in her arms. Her first impulse was
to flee, but instead, she stood up straight and firm, and with an
impulsive gesture gave the card to Mrs. West. “Read, Mother,” demanded
the girl, “and tell who sent these and many others to us,” with
especial emphasis on the last word.
“This time, dearie, I fear we are not in partnership. James, you know
who sent the roses; the card reads, ‘To my sweetheart,’” said Mrs. West
softly, as she again replaced the card.
“I congratulate you Miss—Bess,” remarked Henry, his face suddenly grown
pale.
“So do I, Sister; Davis is a bully good fellow, I think, and I’m sure
he’d make a great brother,” added James before the girl could speak the
words of expostulation which rushed to her lips.
She crushed the roses to her breast and a shower of white petals fell
to the floor. One fluttered against West’s hand, and he started as if a
poisonous insect stung him.
Mrs. West quickly saw the girl’s deep confusion and came to her aid,
remarking that the two were rather hasty in their congratulations,
which, as yet, were most inopportune.
As Bess seated herself, she let the roses slide unheeded from her lap
to the floor. Henry West stooped, lifted the now bruised and broken
blossoms, and going into the living-room placed them upon the folded
copy of _Mon Desir_, as gently and as reverently as if they were laid
upon the silent breast of a lost and dead love.