The home of Jean LaFrance, a small cabin built principally of the ever-ready cottonwood, was located in a corner of his quarter-section, farthest from the Jones' Luck River, which formed one boundary of his farm. He had designs upon more than one quarter-section, not at that time an unusual or impossible ambition, in so far as homestead laws went. His simple plan regarding residence was to move the cabin or build against it as occasion arose. The rolling country sloped steadily upward from the river to the chain of hills farther to the east. These sent down several tributary streams, all unreliable during the warm weather with the exception of one which passed close to the cabin. The conformation of the land gave a view from the cabin of one long stretch of the trail from Twin River and several short ones; opposite the house, continuing to Wayback, the trail was lost sight of.
Thus Buck was plainly visible as he loped along the trail on the morning following the Sweet-Echo tragedy, only no one happened to be observing him. As he disappeared behind the first rise, a pair of inquisitive young eyes, half closed in the effort of the mouth below to retain possession of far more than its capacity, arose above the level of the window sill and looked eagerly for an invitation to mischief. Seeing nothing that particularly called him, Pickles went out and into the barn.
Buck struck off the trail and rode along the path to the house. Spring had returned in force after its temporary retreat before the recent cold and the air bore whisperings of the mighty wedlock of nature; all about him the ecstatic song of the meadow-lark held a meaning that escaped him, vague, intangible, but thrillingly near to suggestion; the new green of the prairie melted into the faint purple of the distant hills, beneath a sky whose blue depths touched infinity. It was a perfect day and Buck, on his errand of aid to the helpless, forgave the fences and the evidence of land cultivation which threatened the life of the range. Riding close to the door he raised his quirt—and paused.
Rivalling the meadow-larks there flowed the music of a mellow contralto roice in song. His hand dropped to his side. That the language was strange made little difference: the meaning of life almost was discovered to him as he listened.
"Earth has her flowers and Heaven her sun—
But I have my heart.
Winter will come, the sweet blossoms will die—
But warm, ah! so warm
Is my heart.
"When the White King makes his truce with the Gold—
How dances my heart!
All the sweet perfumes that float in the Spring
Rest close, ah! so close
In my heart.
"One day when Love like a bee, buzzing past,
Wings close to my heart,
Deep he shall drink where no winter can chill,
Content, ah! content
In my heart."
The low voice died away into silence; from afar came the soft cooing of a dove, soothingly insistent as the croon of a lullaby; the riotous call of the larks arose in gleeful chorus; within the cabin were the sounds of movement: footsteps, the pushing of a pan across the table, and then a subdued pounding which sent Buck's thoughts whirling back into the distant past to hover over one of his most sacred memories. He sat perfectly still. How many years had gone by since he had heard a good woman singing over her household tasks! How very long ago it seemed since his mother had made bread to the tune of that same 'punch, punch, slap—punch, punch'! His stern face softened into a tenderness that had not visited it since he was a boy. Mother—The French Rose—it was a pretty name.
Buck was not in the least aware of it but when a man thus links the name of a woman with that of his mother, it has a significance.
The faint nicker of a horse aroused Allday from his apathetic interest in flies; he raised his head and sent forth a resounding whinny in response; the blare of it was yet in the air when Rose stood in the open doorway.
I despair of picturing her to you, so difficult it is to portray in words the loveliness of a woman's beauty; and the charm of the French Rose was as many-hued as the changing sky at sunset; the modulations of her voice ranged from the grave, rich tones of an organ to the melting timbre of a flute, pitched to the note of the English thrush; her very presence was as steadfastly delightful as the fragrance of a hay field, newly mown. In a long life I have known but one such woman and this was she.
First, then, she harmonized. The simple gown, turned in at the throat, with sleeves rolled high on the arms for greater freedom in her work, the short skirt impeding but little her activity of movement, covered a form meant by God to be a mother of men; and the graceful column of her neck supported a head that did honor to her form. Lustre was in every strand of the black hair, against which the ears set like the petals of a flower; the contour of the face, the regularity of the features, were flawless, unless for an overfulness of the lips in repose; the natural olive complexion, further darkened by the sun-tan from her out-door life, could not conceal the warm color of the blood which glowed in her cheeks like the red stain on a luscious peach; and the mystery of her dark, serious eyes had drawn men miles to the solving—in vain.