“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.