“Helen” was all Bess saw, and yet intuitively she read pages of love, sacrifice, heartaches, hope, pain and glory. She arose, and impulsively placing both her hands against the dark man’s face, she said in a whisper of sympathy, “Henry—Henry! Why cannot I be your sister? Let me fill her place in your heart! Let me take up the broken thread and finish the weaving! Can I? May I?”
My God! What was she saying! What had he heard? “Henry, Henry” rang in the man’s ears, sweeter than any music. She had spoken his name, now, today; and how he had longed to hear her lips frame that homely word. He re-caught the echo of her appeal. It was not love that prompted her then; it was only pity. Were love and pity akin? When he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to reply he clasped both her hands in his own for a brief moment. Then he stepped back and flung up his head. With set jaws he said, in such a low voice that Bess leaned forward on the tiny marble cross to catch the words, “I could not go into the church—I could not pray while hatred tore my heart in pieces—I could not forget her—her misery—I stayed here near her—to tell her again she shall be aven—” Hastily collecting himself and smothering his passion, he continued, “Thank you, little girl—Bess, I may now say; thank you for your sympathy and your pity. I know you are sincere, but somehow—somehow—there is still a void here,” as he clutched at his pounding heart. “Your words do not suffice—they cannot, will not. No, only she—Helen—could be a sister.”
Had Bess not been so unsophisticated she would have understood the subtle meaning of his words. As it was, she only felt her unworthiness, and was sorry her impulsive nature had thrust itself forward.
For a moment there was an awkward silence, which Henry West relieved: “Come, I will show you about the grounds and buildings. James is visiting with Father Damien, over there near the church,” and he led the silent girl away.
Presently they were viewing with interest all the beauties of the place. Here were fine, substantial, brick school buildings, one for the girls and another for the boys, where they were taught all useful and instructive arts. The broad fields were in a high state of cultivation, and the trees of the orchard gave promise of an abundant harvest, so laden were they with lingering blossoms and fast-forming fruit. This seemed to be the very choicest bit of the reservation, where years and years ago came the Jesuit priests, and where, during all this time, they had labored zealously for the temporal and spiritual welfare of the Indian children.
Seated in a wheel chair, in a sunny exposure of the garden, they came upon a black-robed nun with another nun standing near her. As Bess and Henry West approached the one turned to meet them. What a dear, young face was that which upturned to meet Bess’ interested look. What an expression of human understanding lighted up the deep blue eyes, as the girl said to her, “Good morning, Sister; are you enjoying God’s beautiful sunshine?”
“Yes, dear; Sister Mary Joseph can scarcely be inveigled indoors now that the sun is becoming so fervent. Well! Well!” the nun interrupted, “if here isn’t Henry West! See! Sister Mary Joseph, who has honored us with a visit today!”
Henry West stepped forward holding his sombrero in his hands. “This is Miss Bess Fletcher, James’ sister;” he said, “and Bess, this is Sister Mary Joseph, and Sister Agnes.”
Bess bent over the aged nun, who, with difficulty, lifted her hand. But, although the face was lined and seamed by the hand of time and the hardships of frontier life, the smiles of welcome and greeting were made of that kind of woof and warp which never show the ravages of age. Henry explained, “Sister Mary Joseph has been here ever since 1865, and has seen all the vicissitudes of St. Ignatius Mission.”
Bess longed to hear the dear old woman relate some of the wonderful experiences which she had seen and in which she herself had been an important factor, but the bell was calling for the second mass, and as Sister Agnes was just then relieved from her duty by another nun, she asked Bess to accompany her to the church and sing.