Compassionate tears were swimming in Bess’ eyes so that with difficulty she continued reading, “that the visit would not take place until early in the autumn.”
“Really,” said Bess, “I can scarcely wait so long. Berenice and I have been like sisters and were always roommates in school, before her sister’s health demanded her continual presence at home. I have not even seen her since then.”
She now carefully replaced the letter in its envelope and told Mrs. West briefly the tragedy of the sister of her dearest friend, Berenice Morton. It seems that about five years before this time, Miss Grace Morton, who was attending school in Massachusetts, met a Harvard man with whom she fell deeply in love. He was also enamored with the young woman and became a frequent visitor. At last he persuaded Grace to consent to a secret marriage, so that each might continue in school and complete the year’s work before announcing what they had done.
At first he was more devoted as a husband than as a lover, but when it became imperative to announce their secret marriage before the close of the school year, she sent him an urgent request to come to her and take her home to her parents. In vain she waited for him; days grew into weeks, and still he did not come. Driven to desperation at last, she went home to face her parents, to face the world, to bear her agony alone. The shock was so great that the frail mother could not bear it, and her death resulted a few weeks later. But the strong-hearted father and tender young sister opened their arms to the poor, frail, young woman, and with all their combined efforts sought to lessen her burden. Each day she watched for some word or sign from the man who had so cruelly deserted her, but as each day closed without the pain and longing being satisfied, she gradually sank deeper and deeper in despair. Her dear ones began to hope that with the advent of her child she might regain her health of mind, but when the little one came no flickering breath stirred its lips. In vain she opened her arms to receive her treasure, and when they remained empty her heart broke and her mind fled in search of the tiny wandering soul. During all of these years the brokenhearted father and sister watched in vain for some sign of recovery. Now Berenice had written that she was better! Could it be possible that at length their prayers would be answered?
“You see, in all our letters to each other, I never felt like asking Berenice more than she cared to write voluntarily; I do know, however, that she met the man once while visiting her sister at school shortly after the marriage.”
When Bess had finished telling Mrs. West the history of the tragedy, the little mother’s heart was so wrung with tears and pity that she could not speak, and abruptly entered the house.
“I wonder,” said Mrs. West, after she had again found her voice, “what on earth could have prompted any man to do such a cowardly, dastardly act! I believe if I were placed in a similar position with Mr. Morton and should ever discover the scoundrel, I would—kill him!” she said, half to herself and half to the girl, who had followed her into the living-room, and who was now gazing with wide, astonished eyes at the excited woman. For the first time since Bess had come to the HW ranch had she seen the latent savagery aroused. How grand and imposing the woman looked, standing straight and rigid, her black eyes emitting flashes of fire! One hand was thrust into the white tresses, while the other, half upraised and clenched, seemed to grasp an imaginary weapon! She truly looked as if she meant what she said, and as if she could do what she meant. Presently she walked over to an open window, as if she needed the fresh air which gently swayed the curtains. When she had grown quite calm again she turned to Bess, awed at the woman’s magnificent rage.
“My dear, I am glad you are here with me, and quite safe from those vultures who swoop down upon any woman as legitimate prey, simply for the gratification of a momentary passion. They do not hesitate to match their strength against the weak, nor to use every wile, hidden by suavity of manner and equivocal promises, to accomplish their purpose. I do not say all are like this, but the few are ever ready, waiting.”
The girl’s brown eyes filled with a strange light, as if they did not comprehend the subtle significance of the words, or perhaps saw for the first time the full significance of what, heretofore, had seemed like a faint, quavering intuition. Her personal experience with men had been so very limited, and withal so pleasant, that she had felt a sort of brotherly interest in those whom she knew. But somehow, now, there was creeping into her soul an indescribable timidity or fear, and for what she could scarcely define. Into her mind flashed remnants of incidents she had heard of brokenhearted girls, and the tragedy of her friend’s sister stood out clear and ominous! With a start she recalled the day when she and Henry West stood near his sister Helen’s grave, and the half incoherent words again came into her mind and assumed a new and terrible meaning. Yet, here stood the unsuspecting mother, now grown sweet and calm once more; surely, Bess’ surmises must be wrong, for how could any mother have such a secret knowledge and still be able to smile—or even to live?