BERENICE MORTON’S ARRIVAL
“Stand over there, Berenice, and let me look at you all I want,” said
Bess, as she and her friend entered the living room.
Mrs. West, after the return from Polson, where she and Bess had gone
together to meet their visitor, had slipped quietly away that the two
young women might be alone during the first moments.
Berenice Morton did as requested and walked to the far end of the room.
Bess clasped her hands across her breast as she feasted her eyes upon
her friend. Tall, even taller than Bess herself, and graceful as a
swaying reed, she moved with sweet dignity. As she turned about her
large, grey eyes, with their dark lashes, her rosy cheeks, aflame with
a new excitement, her lips curved in a sweet smile, made a picture, set
in a frame of burnished light hair.
“Well—Bess, dear, isn’t this enough?” laughingly questioned Berenice,
when she felt Bess had inspected her sufficiently.
“How your glasses change your looks! They make you seem so dignified
that I really wonder if you are the same girl that used to help me play
some of those dreadful pranks. Your hair, which you always declared
was just like mine, is ever so much lighter, and—dear me!—so much
‘kinkier.’ Oh! If I only were g-r-a-n-d like you!”
“If I were only s-w-e-e-t like you!” replied Miss Morton, as again they
embraced each other.
“Berenice, of course, I have ten million things to tell you, three of
‘_whom_’ are very important. But first you must get freshened up and
rested. Then, after luncheon, I’ll take you to my den—’way off along
the lake, where no one dares to go ’ceptin’ me,” she said, in a low,
sepulchral tone, which might make one surmise all kinds of terrible
things.
“Bess! don’t take me if there is any danger of mountain lions, or
bears, or—or—Indians. Father made me promise to come back with my hair
all on and with my body intact,” Berenice tried to say seriously, but
her sparkling eyes belied her.
“How about your heart, Miss Lady? Did he warn you about that also?”
laughed Bess, as she linked her arm through her friend’s and led her
upstairs into her room.
“How perfectly dear, Bess! No wonder you have been so happy and
contented here!”
“Do look at those wonderful mountains, that great expanse of water,
those towering trees, that—oh! everything!” ejaculated the stranger, as
she gazed out of the opened window. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
“Now, do you wonder at all the ravings my letters contained, Berenice?”
“No, I do not, and I do not wonder that you wrote that you could stay
here always.”
“Always!” thought Bess, “always.” And yet soon would she leave this
sublime beauty, and she could feast her heart only upon its memory.
Could she make the sacrifice?
Bess left her friend and hastened to the dining-room to be of
assistance there. She cautioned Mrs. West against saying anything at
all concerning Mr. Davis, until she might announce her engagement to
Miss Morton.
How deeply Mrs. West and Bess regretted that the “boys” would not reach
home until tomorrow.
“And yet,” said Bess, “I am glad to get a chance for a word or two
before James comes.”
A bunch of rose-berries, large and scarlet, intermingled with the white
berries on stems of buck-bush, graced the center of the table, while at
each plate lay a shining spray of Oregon grape leaves.
After the simple meal was finished the girls arose to leave the room.
Berenice reached to pluck some of the rose-berries for her hair, when
she abruptly gathered Mrs. West into her arms. She put her cheek
against the soft, white hair and kissed her. Then, looking into the
woman’s dark eyes: “My dear mother’s hair was like this,” she said,
stroking it gently. “Bess tried to tell me in her letters of her
‘little Mother,’ but she failed. You are dear—more dear than one can
say, or tell, or even feel.”
Mrs. West’s only reply to this unexpected declaration from the
dignified stranger was a firm pressure of the girl’s hands. She watched
the pair as they descended the steps and wandered off toward the lake
shore, where she knew Bess sought her favorite retreat.
On and on they walked until at length they came to an abrupt rise
in the ground. Bess led the way around the rocks to a huge boulder,
softened by mosses and lichens, projecting far out from its supporting
rocks. They bent their heads as they entered the partial enclosure,
and were soon seated upon large, smooth blocks which had been sawed
from a huge pine log. One had been utilized for a table, upon which
lay several worn magazines. A thick carpet of pine needles which Bess
had gathered and strewn in her den covered the floor. The opening was
directly toward the lake, whose waters were now splashing with whitened
foam upon the rocky shore.
“There—isn’t this a ‘really’ den? When I kill a bear and a mountain
lion I shall place the skins in here; and the antlers from a buck shall
be hung above the door.”
“What a splendid place to come and dream!”
“Yes,” answered Bess. “Henry West helped me to make the chairs, or
rather the seats. It was warm work pulling on the big saw, but so
competent did I prove that he offered to let me saw the winter’s supply
of wood,” she laughed softly.
Wrapping a blanket about herself and choosing a comfortable seat,
Berenice Morton sat anxiously waiting for Bess to begin relating the
million important themes, but especially “the first three of whom.”
For several moments Bess gazed intently over the lake, huddled snugly
in the folds of her blanket. Then, unfastening the beaded belt and
withdrawing it from beneath its cover, pulling it slowly through her
fingers, she said: “You—you will surely like Henry West.”
She paused for a moment, the while deeply thinking; then continued,
deliberately: “So generous, thoughtful, kind; so tender with his
mother; so human, so different, so—” and again her thoughts wandered in
search of words fit to express her encomium.
“Do you care so much for him, dear? More than for anyone else?” asked
the interested listener.
“Oh!—I—you see, Berenice—it was because of this belt, he saved my
life,” came in an evasive reply.
Bess felt a wave of color surge over her face, and the blood in her
heart began to pound violently as she briefly related the story of her
perilous adventure and rescue.
“James and Henry West will reach home some time tomorrow, Berenice.
James has tried to appear unconcerned ever since he knew you were
coming this fall,” she laughed, “and I am inclined to believe that
perhaps Miss Berenice Morton will be just a little de-e-lighted, too,
when the morrow comes.” Bess gave her friend an impulsive squeeze that
made reply an impossibility.
“Well—I’ve heard of Henry West and also concerning James Fletcher;
what, pray, is the third item of interest?” asked Miss Morton, when she
had again resumed her comfortable position.
Bess arose, dropping her blanket near the seat, and walked deliberately
outside the opening of her “den.” Lifting both her hands to brush her
hair from her face, then letting them rest, with fingers intertwined
about her head, she turned and looked in at the awaiting listener.
“On the fifteenth of October I am to be married to Mr. Dave Davis, the
Indian agent of this reservation!”
Berenice opened her eyes and mouth in wide amazement. Lifting her
glasses from her nose and poising them in her fingers, she gazed with
astonishment at Bess Fletcher.
“Bess! And you never told me a single word of him before!”
Bess then told her in as few words as possible of her brief courtship
and the reason for the hasty marriage; she also outlined her few plans
for the wedding, requesting that Berenice write for her father’s
consent to prolong her visit, that she might assist as bridesmaid. Soon
busy tongues were planning details, and by the time the sun’s slanting
rays lighted up the tiny cavern and warned its occupants of the closing
day, every item, each particular, had been planned for the coming
nuptials.
The following day the girls began to watch early for the advent of
James and Henry. Once, as they sighted several horsemen, they ran
down the road, only to be disappointed. It was late in the afternoon,
nearly dinner time, when at last they came, tired and dirty. Berenice
wondered what the large, woolly things were over their trousers; why
their boots had such high heels; what all the rope and “fixin’s” about
their saddles were used for, as she peered cautiously from the upstairs
window.
When Bess finally saw them returning she tried in vain to persuade
Berenice to go with her to meet them, and now she decided that the
“boys” should not be told until dinner time of the presence of the
guest.
Henry slipped from his saddle when he saw Bess coming toward them,
and lifting his big hat and holding the impatient horse with the
other, said: “Let me be first to congratulate you. James—” but he was
interrupted by James hurrying forward and greeting his sister with,
“Congratulations, Sister; met Davis early this morning and he told me
all about it.”
West had taken the reins of James’ horse and led him on toward the
gate. The girl did not see his face pale under the dark skin, nor had
she detected any emotion in his voice as he spoke. She felt just a
little hurt at his unconcern, for she had thought that he might care.
The brother, with his arm placed affectionately about his sister,
listened to her brief plans and heartily approved of them all.
“I am especially glad, Sister, because I have just made up my mind
to return again to my law practice soon. My health seems to be fully
restored, and while I enjoy this life, still I believe it to be to my
greater interest to return East. And then, too, sometime—I hope—that
is—perhaps Ber—” but he was abruptly interrupted by his sister uttering
a sudden oh-h-h! and hurrying into the house.
Not long after Mrs. West called “dinner” from the dining-room. James
and Henry arose from their respective easy chairs, laboriously and
stiffly, and slowly sought their places at the table. Mrs. West also
stood behind her chair waiting for the occupants of the other places.
James thought he heard a suppressed giggle at the door, but did not
face about. Henry had just noticed that two places were still vacant,
and his slight curiosity was immediately relieved by two very tall,
beautiful, smiling women advancing into the room.
James was about to request his tardy sister to hasten, when, by half
turning, he came face to face with Berenice Morton. So completely was
he surprised that he could not speak a word. She advanced and held up
her hand, which he grasped in both his own as he whispered—“Bee!”
Bess laughingly pulled her aside, and leading her over to the other
side of the table waited an instant for Mrs. West to introduce the
stranger to her son. Berenice returned the firm pressure of the man’s
hand as she smiled frankly into his deep eyes. The tempting viands were
being shamefully ignored. One girl was too busy with her merry jests,
while another could scarcely answer all the interrogatives which were
being hurled at her by James.
Mrs. West wondered at her son’s loss of appetite and softly asked if
he were ill. Sick? Yes! Heart-sick—miserably, utterly, hopelessly
heart-sick. Ill with the pain that knows no healing—with a pain that
knows no balm! With an enforced smile he assured his mother that he was
only tired, and made an effort to join in the merry conversation.
“You two ‘boys’ must not plan a single thing for the next few weeks,
except to ‘pack’ us girls about. Don’t you say so, too, ‘little
Mother’?” laughed Bess, as they arose from the dinner table.
“That is, of course, if you can endure me so long, Henry; for you can
plainly see by that,” pointing to the pair already departing through
the doorway, “that I shall need dreadfully to have some one be a little
kind to me, also,” she added, with sweetly pouting lips.
His impulse was to reply that he wished he might be kind always, but
instead he remarked jocosely: “Perhaps—I may manage—Bess—to ‘endure’
you. I shall gladly help to entertain your friend in any way I may.”
“Come, Henry,” said Bess, after she had assisted in clearing the
dining-table, “Berenice shall play and I will sing for you and for
James.”
Song after song was sung—music, soft and tender, came from the gentle
touch of the girl at the piano. Bright, glowing coals were gleaming in
the grate where before were snapping brands. Pale moonlight filtered
through the curtains and filled the room with soft, luminous light.
Silence settled upon all, and each, unconscious of the others, was
deeply absorbed in thought.
“The place for dreaming is in bed. Come, my children; it is late and
growing cold,” said Mrs. West.
What glorious, happy days followed! September, with its soft, warm
days, each filled with delightful rides and excursions, had given
place to opalescent October, that wonderful month with its brilliant
colorings, its ever-changing skies and glorious sunsets. Indian summer
lingered on, day after day, and the fervent sunshine made it difficult
to realize that soon flaky snow would be falling, covering each nude
limb and rock with a winter blanket.
Bess Fletcher had managed during the interim to complete her wedding
gown—simple white and severely plain. She had been unusually
light-hearted and merry; still, several times when alone, as she
thought how rapidly the day of her wedding was approaching, a spasm
of pain had seized her, which fairly made her sick. It was a strange
sensation which she could not define; and hoping that she would soon
overcome it, did not mention it to Mrs. West nor to her friend.
Every day brought ardent letters, and sometimes Berenice wondered how
Bess could wait so long before reading them.
But, most of all, Henry West’s mother marveled at her son’s changed
manner. He entered heartily into all the fun, and even neglected a
number of affairs about the ranch to accompany the other three upon
some of their long rides. His laugh was frequent and his jesting talk
unceasing. Often Bess gazed at him in amazement and tried to solve his
strange, new mood. She felt like restraining him sometimes when his
merriment seemed almost undignified, and beg of him to be his former
self—quiet, calm, or even cold. Once she came upon him quite unawares
in the library. He was seated at the table, his arms thrown out upon
it, with his face buried in them. He did not hear her enter, and as
she touched his arm he sprang suddenly from his seat, overturning
the chair. For an instant his face held its expression of misery,
then suddenly he burst into a loud, grating laugh. Bess was dumb with
bewilderment at his peculiar action.
“Henry—what is the matter? I hate you when you are so unlike yourself!
You have been positively horrid for more than a week! Do tell me if you
are ill, or what I may do to make you behave!” she stormed at him, her
eyes flashing with anger and bright spots burning upon each cheek.
Suddenly West checked his laugh and passed his hand against his brow as
if to stop its pain. He moistened his parched lips and drew deep, long
breaths, while glowing, intense eyes pierced the girl’s very soul.
“Bess—Bess, I’m sorry. Must be I’m not well,” he hesitated, as if to
catch his breath.
Becoming alarmed, Bess started for the door in search of Mrs. West.
“Stop, Bess—do not go—I need nothing. There is something—something—I
have wanted to tell you—so long ago—something—” he sank into a chair
unnerved. The girl walked softly to his side and placed her hand upon
his own. He clutched it with a cruel grasp, then said: “Please go over
there—I cannot talk—if you are so near me!”
“Go on, Henry,” requested the girl, after waiting what seemed an
interminable length of time. Her heart was wrung with pity, and she
could scarcely endure seeing his wretchedness.
“I—I am sorry,” he began slowly, as if with an effort to find words,
“that you are to marry—that man. Bess—” rising abruptly and facing her,
“I have grave reasons—believe me, for hating him as I do. They cannot
be told without injury to—to—” but his sentence was interrupted by the
sudden entrance of James and Berenice.
“Well! Here are the two pikers!” chided James. “We have been waiting
ages for you!”
“Henry is not feeling well. Let’s stay at home today.”
James gave his sister a packet of letters which she scanned carelessly.
At her brother’s request to hurry and see when Davis was coming, she
opened his letter. It was very brief. All it contained was a request
that their plans be changed and that she come to New York for the
wedding, where he would await her. No explanations were given for
his request. James saw that the news contained in the letter was
displeasing, and taking it, at her request that he read, saw at a
glance what was written.
“Well, Bess—shall you go?” and he briefly announced the contents of the
letter to the others.
“James—please send a wire to Mr. Davis that my plans will remain
unchanged!” and she swept haughtily from the room.
“Gee—I admire her spunk, don’t you, Bee?” said James to the girl, as
she hastened after her friend.
One day, as Bess and Berenice were wandering rather aimlessly among the
pines quite near the house, Berenice exclaimed: “Oh! what a novelty
’twould be to have the ceremony out-of-doors! Here—right here!”
Her suggestion had reference to a large, flat rock completely overrun
with beautiful, creepy kinnikinick, and resting at the base of a
large tamarack tree. The small firs made a dark-green background, and
entwined about them hung clusters of clematis, now white with downy,
smoky balls.
“Yes—it would be pretty. All right, we shall! Just think, dear, only
one day more, and then—”
“Oh, my! Somehow the time has seemed too short,” remarked Bess, and her
friend could not fail to hear the sadness which crept into her voice.
Dave Davis had written that his business had detained him much longer
than he had thought, but that he should be able to reach _HW_ ranch on
the fourteenth. However, on the morrow came a messenger with a letter
from Mr. Davis, stating that he could not possibly reach the ranch
before the day of the wedding, and that nothing, nothing on earth
should prevent his being there in ample time.
“I shall explain in detail as soon as I see you, dear,” the message
ran, “and cannot express how the enforced delay has hurt me.”
“Dear me, Bess; I had hoped to know him intimately before ‘the day,’”
said Berenice, truly regretful.
If Bess felt any displeasure or annoyance her manner nor her reply did
not betray it. Her greater concern, seemingly, was whether or no Henry
West would be home in time to attend the ceremony. Two days before he
had received word from a distant part of the range that some trouble
among the stock demanded his immediate attention. As he hastily bade
her good-bye, he said he hoped to be back on the fifteenth, or at least
in time to say good-bye before she and Berenice should take their
departure.